


A Bird in the Hand

by finefeatheredfriend



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, First attempt at reader insert, Humor, Little spoon Arthur, Mid-twenties Arthur Morgan, Pre-Canon, Reader a straight up thot for Arthur, Reader is a bounty huntress, Reader is very confident, Reader-Insert, Shameless Smut, Smut, Some Dubcon elements, Spanking, Strangers to Lovers, reader has a backstory, reader is horny on main
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22287442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finefeatheredfriend/pseuds/finefeatheredfriend
Summary: You finally managed to find the infamous Arthur Morgan and you're planning to turn him in for some easy money. Things go awry when you realize you'd very much like to sleep with him.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & The Gang, Arthur Morgan/Female!Reader, Arthur Morgan/Reader, Arthur Morgan/You
Comments: 59
Kudos: 219





	1. The Bounty

**Author's Note:**

> This is my VERY FIRST reader insert, so apologies in advance if it's terrible. You, reader, are playing the role of a bounty hunter with a sordid past since I am crap at writing characters with open-ended backgrounds. Hopefully it works. I am open to (constructive) suggestions in the comments, or you can message me on tumblr, I'm @finefeatheredgamer

You stared at him from across the dimly lit saloon, eyes glittering beneath the brim of your fancy, feather-adorned hat. Your hair was piled tastefully around your ears and neck, partially obscuring your face. The dress you wore was hot, the corset beneath it stifling and the garters clamped around your thighs were driving you to madness, but while you far preferred trousers and a button up top, this getup was for a worthwhile cause. You had been watching for him, researching his movements and behaviors and you knew that for the past three weeks, he had come into this saloon for dinner, drinks, a game of poker, a bath, and a room.

And there he was, Mr. Arthur Morgan.

His face was unmistakable from the bounty poster you held in your hand. The artist had taken the liberty of slapping a nasty look on his subject’s face, showing Mr. Morgan with one side of his lip curled in disgust or anger, just enough to show teeth. His eyes were drawn dark and mean, and a little bit too small compared with how they really appeared, two bright sapphire jewels beneath thick brown caterpillar brows. The little divot at the tip of his slightly upturned nose was shaded with crosshatching on the poster, and the shape and texture of his leather gambler’s hat left no question that this was certainly him.

Nasty though the poster’s expression was, its true likeness looked jovial, friendly even. The only hint that he was a dangerous man was the revolver sitting heavily on his wide hips and the hunting knife dangling just above the crease of his leg. Morgan was laughing a loud, open-mouthed cackle, dragging poker chips in toward himself across the felted table and making smartassed remarks at the irritation on one of the other player’s faces.

“You look just like you swallowed a lemon,” he observed, crow’s feet gathering around his surprisingly kind eyes as he jostled the man and chuckled again.

“Keep your hands off me, you imbecile,” the suited man snapped and that was all it took for you to realize quite plainly that Morgan was exactly the man on the poster you had tucked back into your bag.

“What the hell did you call me?” he asked, voice low, brows drawn together in a furious expression.

“I’ll spell it for you so you can find it in the dictionary,” the man said nastily and in an instant the situation was out of control. There was a cacophony of scraping as Morgan's chair flew backwards, falling over with a clatter as the big gunslinger hauled the man up from his seat by his shirt collar, shoving him backwards and keeping a hard, white-knuckled grip in the fabric of his shirt. He slammed the smaller man into the wall, dazing him.

“You wanna apologize for that,” Morgan advised him, adjusting his grip so he was holding neck as well as shirt and the man struggled to suck in a breath.

“G-go to h-hell,” he gasped out.

“Oh, I’ll meet you there, mister,” Morgan promised lowly, hand reaching for his gun. Now was as good a time as any to distract him.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, there’s no need for all this fuss,” you said, sidling over and putting a hand daintily on Morgan’s broad shoulder. A shudder bolted through you at the warm feeling of hard muscle beneath your grip. It had been too long since you had a man between your legs, you thought absently. Morgan’s gaze slid to meet yours, all icy anger and bravado – but it melted instantly when he realized it was a woman touching him, not another man about to start a fight. His gaze flickered with surprise and his eyebrows rose. Without looking back at the man who insulted him, he released his grip, straightening the man’s shirt and shoving him away dismissively before turning to look at you.

“Ma’am,” Morgan greeted, blushing a deep red and tipping his hat. That nearly drew a laugh from you. Where moments before had been a towering brute dripping with machismo was now an awkward fella who seemed to have suddenly forgotten what to do with his hands. He held his arms gawkily out to the sides, settled his hands on his gunbelt, changed his mind and ended up crossing his arms over his chest just a little too high to be comfortable.

“You’re causing quite a ruckus, darlin’,” you told him, snatching his hat from his head and carding your fingers through his hair in a gesture that clearly surprised the hell out of him the way he almost flinched away from your touch.

“Oh, I ain’t, uh, I don’t, uh…I don’t pay fer…” Morgan was beet red now and you forced your temper to stay calm at the implication of his words.

“You have a quite a way with words, don’t you,” you stated dryly, handing him his hat back. "I'm not a hooker, darlin', I'm a dressin' and bathin’ girl."

“You’re just gonna let him get away with manhandlin’ me?” the suited man crowed at you. You met his eyes.

“Shoo,” you told him with a dismissive gesture, “get.” Cowed, he muttered something under his breath and scurried away. “You,” you said, addressing Morgan again, “why don’t you take some of them winnin’s of yours and come have a bath? Do you some good to soak your head, anyway,” you suggested. Morgan eyed you appreciatively, running startlingly blue eyes up and down your body.

“Reckon I could use a wash,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly after settling his hat back on his head.

“I’ll get it ready for you,” you promised. You walked up the stairs, nodding to the woman you had paid off earlier. Relieved not to have to wash one more dirty, lecherous client, she vanished easily, not waiting to see who you would be servicing. You poured the hot water into the copper tub, mixing in pleasant-smelling soap and stirring it with your hand, testing the temperature. Stoking the fire, you set a bottle of whiskey and two tumblers on the table next to the bath and hung a towel to warm near the fireplace. There was a knock at the door. “Come in, water's ready,” you called, turning toward the door after shuffling your corset so that a bit more of your breasts jiggled tantalizingly out of the top of your dress.

“Full service tonight, huh?” Morgan asked, blushing again as you hung his hat and vest up for him. “Usually undress myself.”

“I don't believe in doing half a job,” you explained as you pushed his suspenders off his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt, avoiding his gaze because, damn it really has been too long and those ocean eyes of his were doing things to you. Sliding the shirt from his shoulders, you reached for his gunbelt, but he stopped you with a hand, grasping your wrist so hard it hurt.

You forced a distressed noise from your throat, though you weren’t fazed in the slightest. If anything it stoked the flame of casual lust you’ve been feeling and you wished for a moment that those long, thick fingers were clenched around your throat instead.

“Sorry, miss,” he muttered, releasing his grip. “Old habits.” You proceeded, unbuckling his belt, letting your hand trail across the front of his groin just lightly enough that he couldn’t accuse you of doing it intentionally. You set the belt aside, making sure to place it where it would be in easy reach for you, but not for him, hooked over the fireplace behind where you’ll be sitting while you bathe him.

Now for the good part. You unbuttoned his pants and he grunted softly, putting a hand over yours to still you.

“I can, uh, I can get these,” he insisted, and you resisted the urge to pout. There’s nothing quite like drawing a man’s trousers slowly down his thighs, nothing like seeing the material scrape over the soft bundle of treasure hanging low between his legs, ready to be stroked to hardness. Morgan shoved his pants down around his ankles, kicking his boots and socks off, and now he stood before you in a thin blue union suit, the last layer of material between his naked body and your hands.

“Let me,” you murmured, unbuttoning the front and sliding the sleeves off, then letting the soft material pool around his hips, but he beat you to shoving them down. You have to stop your jaw from dropping because apparently “Morgan” isn’t just a breed of horse, it’s a man who’s hung like one. His soft cock hung heavily between his legs, its thick base nestled in a thatch of golden brown curls, resting atop a set of balls that have you wanting to swallow him down, your mouth watering with the thought of it. His legs are thick and muscular with just the right amount of fat covering lean muscle. His pale chest and thighs are dusted with soft hair that thickens at his sternum and groin. Arthur Morgan, man wanted dead or alive, is quite a specimen. You realized after a moment that you’ve been staring an uncomfortably long time and your cheeks are burning red with desire.

Well. Nothing wrong with playing with one’s food before they eat it, you figured.

“Please, the water’s ready,” you offered, gesturing toward the tub.

“Thank ya, miss,” he responded, turning and plunking a thick leg into the steaming water with a splash. You eyed his backside appreciatively, taking in the hard, pale globes of muscle, the light dusting of hair over his shoulders, the patch of slight pink saddle rash along the bottom of his ass and the barest glimpse of a pucker of skin between his cheeks that you’d like to stroke a finger across, just to see him gasp. All in good time.

“Water okay, sir?” you asked as he sank into the bubbles with a sigh of contentment, his cheeks squeaking against the bottom of the tub.

“Jest fine,” he assured you, his eyes closed, he tilted his head back, taking a deep breath that made his broad chest expand in a tantalizing way. “You new here?” he asked you, opening his eyes a crack to look where you were picking up a rag, dabbing it into the bathwater to wet it in preparation to bathe him.

“Just got into town a couple of weeks ago,” you told him, and it is not a lie. The best way to cover your tracks, you figured, was to tell as much of the truth as possible.

“Them other girls jest do the washin’, and they sure as hell don’t look at me the way you do,” he commented, opening his eyes fully and reddening, but there’s a shy, sweet smile on his handsome face that makes your stomach flutter.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” you tell him, and that _is_ a lie. “I'm still learnin' the ropes. Still getting used to the idea of seeing men naked,” you continued, another lie, and you had to resist the smirk that tried to spread across your face. You sat down on the edge of the tub and took his arm, which he allowed to hang limply, heavy and thick with muscle and dense bone. His hands are weathered, with fingernails stained with tobacco and gunpowder, the almost green veins that lace their way up from his fingers to his wrist are prominent beneath the soft hair that catches the light in the small bathroom. You took your cloth and grabbed a bar of soap with it, massaging it gently over his skin as he stared at you, his eyes flicking guiltily to your breasts before darting away.

You realized as you bathed Morgan that this was a man who was touch-starved and craved contact. He leaned into your ministrations almost absentmindedly, his head tilting back as another shy smile spread across his face.

“So, you, uh, got a feller?” he asked, and you felt a streak of satisfaction run through you. He wanted you. You can see it in the hopefulness in his eyes, in the way he shyly slid his gaze over your form. You chuckled, pushing away the memory of a man you loved once, long ago. But he was gone and since he had passed, any time you spent with a man was fleeting, was for fun only. Your promiscuous spirit was a way of protecting yourself from getting hurt again.

“No,” you reply, “I don’t have a fella. You think I’d be doing this if I did?” you laughed, realizing belatedly that this was not the sort of thing a bathing girl would say to a client.

“Hmm, well, I guess you’re right,” he admitted, going quiet. Cursing yourself for the comment, you ran the soap over his shoulders, massaging the taut muscle there.

“You feel really tight,” you purred in Morgan’s ear and the faintest hint of a shudder worked its way through him, goosebumps rising on his skin. He turned his head slightly to the side so he could look at you from the corner of his eye.

“Been a tough few weeks,” he admitted.

“Oh?” you asked casually.

“Got bounty hunters after me for some dumb shit I did about thirty miles from here,” he drawled, sounding thoroughly annoyed at himself. “I dunno what came over me. I was just goin’ through my satchel, and next thing I know someone bumped me and I…well, I punched ‘em. Then the sheriff got involved and I had to beeline it outta there before they skinned me. And now I’ve got a fifty dollar bounty on my head in that town.”

Not just in that town, you wanted to add, remembering the very large number printed in plain black letters on the bounty poster in your bag. Arthur Morgan had done much worse than punch a stranger, or so the price on his head would have you believe. You continued your ministrations much as one of the real bathing girls would, scrubbing his arms, his shoulders, his back. He obligingly lifted first one, then the other leg out of the water so you could wash those too.

“My dog Copper used to take baths with me, back when he was alive,” Morgan confided and for a moment your brain short-circuited, and you could think of absolutely no response you could give to that admission that wouldn’t come across as mocking or patronizing. You blinked quickly, not quite sure if you had heard him right before you finally decided, deeply amused, that Arthur Morgan was a very scary, very capable outlaw, but he was terrible with women. “Sorry, I, uh, sorry,” he muttered lamely.

“’S alright,” you told him, massaging his neck. You took your cloth and ran it down his chest and he looked up at your face with surprise as you kept moving it down, down, down his torso to where his thick waist met wide, muscular hips and my god, he is a tree trunk of a man, you think to yourself, feeling wetness in your drawers at the temptation before you. He was your prey, yes, your bounty, and you were only here because you needed to get him vulnerable and away from his weapons, but this diversion was too much of a temptation.

“Miss, I…” he began as your cloth swiped at the crease of his leg and sweet Lord in heaven you felt that heavy cock bob against your hand and it was all you could do not to take it in your fingers and stroke it to all its glory. Morgan grunted and jerked as you ran the cloth underneath him, and your other hand down his back to his butt cheek, giving an appreciative squeeze. “S-stop,” he told you, voice going firm and he blushed when he saw that you knew that it was not the only part of him going firm.

“Thought for sure you’d be up for some fun, big fella,” you whispered in his ear, but you began to pull your hand out of the water, accepting that he was not interested in what you were offering. He grabbed your hand firmly and held it, gaze piercing.

“You make a habit of doin’ this to all the gentlemen you bathe?” he asked in a hiss. You smirked at him now.

“You callin’ yourself a gentleman?”

“I’m a lot of things, miss, but I ain’t gentle,” he growled, and you almost laughed at him. Based on his reactions to your touch, he would be as gentle as a lamb in bed, slow and sweet and so, so good laid there between your legs, stretching your joints and rutting into you with that massive cock of his.

“No, I don’t make a point of trying to bed the men I work with,” you told him truthfully, pushing your lewd thoughts away for a moment. “But I think you’re handsome, and lonely, and I’m pretty and lonely. So why don’t you show me how gentle you can be?”

“You don’t even know my name,” he snapped, releasing your hand and grasping the sides of the tub with a trembling grip.

“No, I don’t,” you lied easily. “My name is Y/N. Pleased to meet you, Mister…?” Morgan stared up at you, working his jaw. Finally, he blinked and huffed a sigh.

“Morgan. Arthur Morgan.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Morgan. Would you like for me to accompany you to your room?” you asked him expectantly. He glared at you for a long moment, and you could tell he was considering it, could tell that he was very, very tempted by your offer, but some part of him resisted your charms.

“No,” he insisted, shaking his head, which you had not washed yet. “And I reckon I kin bathe myself,” he griped.

“Now, now, Mr. Morgan,” you admonished him, “you’ve already paid for the deluxe bath. I promise I won’t try to compromise your virtue. Wouldn’t want you going to your wedding bed anything but a virgin,” you joked, and he went scarlet, the tips of his ears an alarming shade of crimson that made him look as though smoke should be emanating from his ears.

Nevertheless, Morgan allowed you to continue bathing him, wordless and broody. Pouting. You washed his hair gently, massaging his scalp and rinsing it thoroughly. Now. Now was the time, or there would never be another. He was big, and dangerous, and you were pretty sure he was damn angry with you now, frustrated and beginning to lose patience with your flirtation and how much time you were taking to get him clean.

Slinging the rag you’d been using to bathe him around Morgan’s throat, you brought the ends together behind his neck and twisted as quickly and as hard as you could.

Like a hooked fish, Morgan thrashed in the water, his muscular legs kicking at the slick inside of the tub, trying to gain purchase, his mouth opening in a wide gasp for air, fingers scratching at you, but you leaned back, keeping your face and arms out of his reach. The only part of you Morgan could touch was your hands, but you had them locked in a vice grip around the cloth, knowing that if you let go before he went unconscious, he would probably kill you. You genuinely felt bad when Morgan craned his head around, terror stark in his blue-green eyes before finally, he went limp, his eyes going distant and sliding shut, his body heavy and slick in the water.

You were a lot of things, but you were not a killer. You took no joy in killing a bounty. Any poster you received that read “dead or alive” might as well have said “alive.” You did not kill people for crimes you had not personally seen them commit. Loosening the rag from around his neck, you tossed it aside, panting from the effort of forcing the big man unconscious.

Morgan’s big body slid down in the tub, his mouth and nose dangerously close to the level of the water. Heaving him upward with your arms tugging under his armpits, you lugged him out of the tub, his body landing on the floor with a dull thud that made you wince. He would probably be bruised in the morning. With movements so gentle you surprised yourself, you took care to dry Morgan thoroughly, pulling the clean clothes he had brought with him onto his body before hogtying him tightly, his wrists roped behind his back, his ankles laced together and the two connected with another rope between them.

You gave a strained grunt as you slung him over your shoulder, staggering in place. This was easily your least favorite part of bounty hunting – the getting the big ass criminal onto your horse part. You tossed another coin to the bathing girl you had replaced and with a great deal of effort, managed to get Morgan down the back stairs of the seedy establishment where your horse was waiting. You tied Morgan’s horse to your saddle horn, patting it kindly and feeding it a sugar cube. Might as well make some more money selling the big silver dappled Thoroughbred later, not to mention whatever might be found in the saddlebags. You could see that the horse’s pack was bristling with weapons – several rifles, two shotguns, a bow. They would be worth quite a lot to a gunsmith, no doubt.

You were not nearly tall enough or strong enough to toss all of Morgan’s two-hundred pound frame onto your horse’s back, so you called your mount over to the porch and climbed up, puffing out a breath as you half-threw, half-dragged your quarry onto its haunches. Morgan’s horse laid its ears back and nickered unhappily, but it didn’t try to break away. Gulping in a massive gust of air, you stepped out of the hoop skirt you were wearing and kicked the outer skirt away as well, tearing the fabric of the dress until you stood in the darkness of the night in nothing but your corset and a tight-fitting pair of bloomers. Digging through your own saddlebags, you pulled out your favorite jeans and shirt and pulled them on after cutting the corset away and tossing it into the alley with the rest of your dress.

You secured Morgan to your saddle so he wouldn’t fall off during your ride and pulled yourself up onto your horse, riding quickly into the night, eager to escape town with your prize.


	2. The Proposition

Morgan awoke with a groan, coughing once and then moaning lowly. He was slung over your horse with his belly to its haunches.

“Oh, ow,” he muttered as the lope of your horse’s gait made his body jostle up and down. “Goddammit,” he hollered as he gathered his senses, craning his head up to look at where you had tipped your face to the side to check on him. You prided yourself on taking very good care of your bounties while they were in your custody, and you were relieved that your rag hadn’t left a bruise across his neck.

“You alright back there, Mr. Morgan?”

“Shoar,” he told you sarcastically, “these ropes are a bit tight, though. Don’t suppose you can loosen 'em?”

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid,” you responded with a small smile.

“This about me refusin’ to bed you?” he asked in a dry tone, yanking at his bonds, which did not shift. You were careful and smart. You didn’t tie loose knots.

“Nah, this is about that five hundred dollar bounty on your head outta Merriweather for that train you robbed.”

“Shhhiiiit,” he remarked, laying his head back on your horse’s haunches in defeat.

“But for the record, this would have gone much more pleasantly for you if you’d let me have my way with you,” you joked, reaching a hand back to pat him on the head with a patronizing motion. Morgan scowled and jerked away from your touch. He said nothing, just seethed as you rode until finally, he ground out through gritted teeth,

“Where’s my hat?”

“On your horse,” you told him, not looking back. You had a lot of ground to cover and you didn’t want to give him time to figure out how to escape. Thoughtful as you rode, and very aware of the constant dull ache between your legs at the thought of wrapping them around Morgan instead of your horse, you opened your mouth to speak. “I know you wanted me, Mr. Morgan. But you don’t pay prostitutes and you didn’t want me touching your cock. You married?”

“Nah,” he answered bitterly.

“So what is it, then? Are you a prude? Willing to kill men and start barfights but don’t want to give up your virtue, is that it?” Morgan grumbled something under his breath you didn’t quite catch so you not-so-accidentally let the end of your reins snap against his cheek just enough to sting a bit, but not enough to injure the skin. He barked a grunt and cursed at you before finally answering so you could hear.

“I don’t bed just anyone who asks me to,” he admitted in a nasty tone.

“So you’re a prude, then,” you concluded, rolling your eyes. After a long moment, having found a good spot to cook some lunch and camp, you slowed your horse and stopped, hitching it to a large oak tree with Morgan’s horse alongside it. You tugged Morgan down onto the ground where he collapsed in a cursing heap. He spat and gave you a dirty look before sitting up, stretching as much as he could. “Sorry about this,” you said, and you were, but it was the safest way to keep a bounty under control – you strung another rope around his ankles and tied the end of it to your saddle horn after tossing it over a sturdy tree branch.

“Ah shit,” Morgan blurted in a defeated tone, recognizing what you were about to do to him.

“Ge’ up!” you called to your horse, and it stepped forward slowly, lifting Morgan’s weight up by his ankles until he dangled like a fly caught in a spider’s trap and you tied the end of the rope so that he would stay that way.

“Oh, goddamn you!” he cried out as his back and shoulders and ankles popped at the strain of being held up like this. Squirming, he tried to turn on the rope to face you, but his momentum kept him going and after a few moments of spinning, he looked a little green in the face. Taking pity on him, you reached out a hand to still his movement.

“It’s just for a few minutes,” you promised, hand still resting on his side where a subtle layer of soft fat covered his hard core muscles. Again, you felt temptation flood you, but you forced yourself to mind serious business, busying yourself with going through his saddle bags.

“Stay outta that!” Morgan called in a strained voice, thrashing and letting out a piteous moan as he began to spin again. You ignored him and rifled through his things, setting aside all the weapons and valuables and ignoring things that you knew you couldn’t sell. The man seemed to collect little baubles and bits, birds’ feathers and shiny, interesting-shaped rocks. Most of what he was carrying appeared to be of entirely sentimental value, and if he had not already told you his name, you would have wondered if you had trapped an innocent man. Arthur Morgan, hoarder of small pieces of beauty, was apparently an artist, you found, digging out a well-worn leather journal. Morgan struggled in earnest now, cursing at you and trying to bend at the waist to free himself, to no avail. “Stay outta my things, woman!” he demanded again, his voice sounding desperate this time, but curiosity had overcome any common courtesy you might have granted him.

Your fingers flipped through pages richly illustrated with drawings of animals, people and plants. His sketches of animals were particularly marvelous, capturing the impression of movement in simple scribbles of a dull lead pencil. Browsing what he has written, you sat on a log to read, captivated by his thoughts, by the things he has seen, and the things he has done. You saw that Arthur Morgan was a man who struggled with regret and morality, unsure always if he is doing the right thing, and grieving when he has realized he has done wrong. You look over at him where he is glaring hatefully at you and smile shyly.

“I’m afraid I may have underestimated you, Mr. Morgan,” you admitted, untying the rope and letting him slide down until his shoulders rested on the ground and the rest of his body followed. He spluttered in the dirt for a moment, flipping himself onto his side and fixing you with a malevolent stare.

“Seems both of us made that mistake about the other,” he snarled and for a moment you wondered if you have grabbed a wolf by the tail and were just waiting for it to take its chance to bite.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Morgan,” you said truthfully. “I had to check your things for weapons or plans for someone to meet you. As I’m sure you know, this is a dangerous job.” He chose not to reply, just watched you as you walked up to him and pulled him up so that he could sit. “Don’t try anything,” you advised, holding your pistol on him as you very carefully and very slowly, having only one hand free, untied one of his arms, bringing it around to his front and then bringing the other around before binding the rope tightly around his chest and arms at the crook of his elbows so that he had use of his hands, but couldn’t reach beyond his knees. It was easily the dumbest way you had ever tied up a bounty, but you seemed to have developed a soft spot for Morgan.

Morgan stared up at you, jaw clenched and a hateful look on his features. “I’ll make us some lunch. Here,” you said, offering him a bottle of whiskey to dull the pain he was probably feeling in his joints both from the ride and from being hung upside down for the better part of thirty minutes or so. He glared at you suspiciously, but took the bottle, bending his head so he could reach with his bound arms, gulping the honey colored liquid down. He emptied it, tossed the bottle aside and hissed in air between clenched teeth at the burn of the alcohol. Your jaw dropped and you laughed. “Well, then. That was my last bottle of my favorite whiskey,” you admonished, tone remorseful. Morgan looked not a bit regretful, but he did relax, his shoulders slumping a bit, so you double-checked his bonds.

You started a fire and cooked a rabbit you managed to snare, offering some to Morgan, who had to bend his head to reach it with his arms bound as they were, teeth tearing hungrily at the meagre meal.

“The hell is you doin’ setting up your tent?” Morgan asked you as you hammered a tent stake into the ground, spreading the canvas carefully.

“I prefer to travel at night,” you informed him as you worked. “Saves me the trouble of having to keep my bounties away from other hunters. I’m going to get some shut eye, which means you’re getting tied to that tree right there,” you informed him, pointing a finger back at the big oak. “But I won’t hang you again, provided you don’t give me any trouble.” Once you had finished setting up your tent, you drug Morgan backwards and he offered no resistance, but he certainly didn’t help you either, letting himself go limp like a sack of potatoes while you tugged and grunted with effort, sweating by the time you had him attached to the tree.

You laid down, realizing how exhausted you were after lifting the big outlaw several times and then riding hard. You had just drifted off to sleep when his loud, off-key voice began to sing:

_“I had just come home and I took a room, I was all settled down to recline, When I saw a delectable maid go by, To the room next door to mine Like the bold Columbus then, I set out to explore, And I took up my position by The keyhole on the door. The keyhole in the door, My boys, the keyhole in the door, I took up my position By the keyhole in the door!”_

“Morgan!” you shouted, “shut it!” Ignoring you, he continued, his voice going hoarse and cracking on notes he couldn’t hit.

_“She first took off her slippers, Her dainty feet to show, And then she took her panties off And revealed her so-and-so, And when she stretched out on her bed, I couldn't stand no more, It was one, two, three, I turned the key In the keyhole in the door!”_

“Morgan!” you shrieked, jabbing your head out of the tent. His eyes were twinkling with mischief. Meeting your eyes with a sassy toss of his head, he kept singing.

_“She didn't say a single word. But she took me in her arms, And pretty soon I was much engaged, In charting all her charms But just in case some other sailor’d see the sights I saw, I hung my trousers right above The keyhole in the door! That night I rode in glorious style, And other things besides, And on her lily white stomach, Boys, I had such lovely rides!”_

It shouldn’t, it really, really shouldn’t, but the thought of Morgan riding you like the song described had you so randy, you couldn’t bear it anymore. You bit your lip, seriously considering if trading a vigorous roll in the hay with this handsome outlaw for his freedom would be worth losing the five hundred dollars you would get for him otherwise. You remembered all the other bounty posters you had picked up in your travels and a sneaky little plan began to form in your mind. Hunting men who did not want to be caught was hard work…work best done with a partner…

Thinking for a moment, you sauntered back over to Morgan, eyes narrowed. You unbuttoned your shirt partly, exposing skin and a lacy brassiere. Morgan’s eyes dilated with lust as you bent down in front of him, giving him ample view of your cleavage as you stretched languidly and stared at him, hands on your hips.

“I have a proposition for you, Mr. Morgan.”

“Oh?” he purred roughly and you could tell that anger and desire were battling within him as his eyes scanned over your body.

“You’re worth five hundred dollars, but I can already tell you’re going to be a pain in my ass the entire time, and I’ve decided that I like you, Mr. Morgan. Couldn’t tell you why, but I’ve taken a shine to you. Maybe it’s your eyes, maybe it’s that enormous horse cock you’ve got hanging between your legs, but I like you, and aside from what I read in that journal of yours, I’ve heard a bit about you.”

“Nothing good, I hope,” Morgan quipped, his face darkening at the mention of your violation of his privacy.

“Hush,” you ordered, moseying toward him and sitting down on his lap so you could meet his eyes. That your hands were experimentally unbuttoning his striped pants and your hips were grinding atop his thighs was beside the point. “I have four more bounty posters in my bag, each worth three hundred dollars. Now, I don’t know if you know arithmetic, but that’s a bit more than five hundred, all totaled, even split between two people.”

“And?” Arthur managed to grunt as you worked your hand into his pants. He wasn’t saying ‘no’ or ‘stop,’ so you continued touching him, drawing his cock out and eyeing him for any negative response or protest. His hands sat limply in his lap, not pushing you away.

“And, I know you’ve done some bounty work yourself in the past,” you answered him. “You aren’t so mysterious as you think, Mr. Morgan. Now then, if you’ll agree to help me with those bounties, I’ll leave you be afterward. I’ll shred my bounty poster and let you go on your merry way. Not only that, but I’ll throw any other bounty hunters I encounter far off your trail.” You worked your hand up and down his shaft as he considered, biting the edge of his bottom lip as you slid his foreskin up over the head of his cock, giving it a squeeze and feeling it harden in your grasp. He glanced down at where you had a hold of him, his breath stuttering as you worked.

“Christ,” he mumbled, his hips involuntarily thrusting upwards into your hand as you slid it up and down the length of him.

“Thought you didn’t want this, Mr. I-Don’t-Bed-Just-Anyone-Who-Asks-Me-To,” you teased in a deep voice. Morgan met your eyes with a growl in his throat and curl to his lip that made him look just like the image on the bounty poster.

“You know full-well I want ya, you damn minx,” he hissed, grabbing one of your thighs with his hand where he could reach it. “You can’t blame a man for tryin’ to be honorable, tryin’ to have some self-control,” he managed to get out around an open-mouthed pant as you leaned down and lapped up the precum that had oozed out of the tip of his cock. You chuckled, taking just the head of his cock into your mouth and smiling around it as his hips squirmed, desperately trying to control himself.

“Is _that_ what all this is about, Mr. Morgan? Concerned about a loss of control?” He glared daggers at you, clenching his jaw so tightly you could hear his teeth squeak. “So,” you asked softly, “what do you think of my proposal? Will you work with me? Or are you too proud to take my offer? Because, if so, I’ll leave you be,” you promised, releasing his cock, letting it fall heavily onto his leg, “But I’ll also leave you tied up, pleasure myself with my fingers in my tent where you can watch and still take you into Merriweather to hang.” The bound outlaw scowled spitefully and cursed under his breath, so you stood and began to walk back to your tent, disappointed at his stubbornness.

“Wait,” he called after you and you grinned. Morgan leaned his head back against the tree you had tied him to and worked his jaw, inhaling through his nose. “I reckon I can help you with them bounties. Sounds like a fair deal.”

“Alright, then,” you responded, but still you continued toward your tent.

“Where’re you going, woman? Ain’t you gonna finish what you started?” he demanded.

“Yes,” you replied, “I am. I’m going to sleep.” It took every bit of self-control you had not to run back to him when you saw him holding himself in his hand, pumping himself with a look of singular frustration on his features, rutting his hips up and down in an effort to take care of the erection you had given him with arms still bound, making it hard for him to achieve a steady stroke.

“Dammit, Y/N, come ‘ere!”

“And why should I?” you demanded.

“Because you need this,” he taunted, jiggling his hips so his jutting erection waved tantalizingly. “And because you’re right. I want ya. You’re crazy and you scare the shit out of me, woman, but goddammit if you ain’t prettiest thing I’ve laid eyes on in months. So you come here and I’ll show ya I’m worth a lot more than five hundred dollars,” he rumbled, the bravado he showed when he was about to get into a fight returning, replacing his awkwardness and anger. You snorted.

“Are you implying you’re a very expensive whore, Mr. Morgan?”

“Shut up,” he replied, tugging at his bonds uselessly. “Untie me,” he demanded as you approached him again, sliding your pants and undergarments off and sitting in his lap. You met his eyes and grinned.

“No.” Reaching a hand down between the two of you, you grasped him again, sliding your hand up and down and teasing the other into his pants to grasp his balls, him grunting and hissing, hips rolling in place as he cursed and tugged at the tree.

“Dammit, woman, lemme loose!” Morgan griped, but as you rubbed your dripping slit over the head of his cock he shuddered, mouth going slack and he stopped fighting the bonds, instead resting one of his palms on each of your thighs. You rubbed yourself back and forth over him, letting yourself get more and more worked up, imagining his hands running over your body, his mouth hot on your pulse, his teeth nibbling at your ear. You waited, rocking gently, until you could hardly stand it, until you nearly came just from the grinding before you guided the head of his cock to your entrance, sinking down with a small squeal at the stretch, taking a shuddering breath as you adjusted to the dull ache of being spread by his girth. “Oh Christ,” Morgan muttered helplessly, his eyes gone a little blank, his thick pink lips open in a pant. You leaned forward and kissed him roughly, biting his bottom lip hard enough to hurt, but not enough to draw blood.

Morgan tasted like tobacco, and peppermint candy and your favorite whiskey. He was simultaneously sweet and cold and sharp, all angles while somehow also soft. Even with the barest knowledge of him, you could tell that he was a complicated man. You lifted your hips, sliding him most of the way out of you and grinding your hips in circles, but Morgan was impatient, needy. You could tell it had been a while for him too, the way he was already worked up and sweating, sucking in air and squeezing his eyes shut, but they snapped open when you let out a cry as he snapped his hips up, ramming himself into you abruptly.

“You alright?” he asked, and he seemed genuinely concerned. Your pupils were blown wide with lust as you smiled at him.

“I’m just fine, Mr. Morgan,” you muttered, lifting your hips again and then sinking back down until your hips were flush with his.

“I want to touch you,” he begged, his arms tugging again at the ropes that kept them from extending fully.

“You don’t get to be in control this time, darlin’,” you advised him, booping him on the nose with an index finger. He scowled at you, fingernails scratching at your thighs, hips hopping up and down so that you bounced on his cock. Throwing your head back in ecstasy, you focused on the friction of his cock sliding in and out of you, his silky steel flesh pressing against your walls and you felt yourself involuntarily clamping down, grabbing his shoulders to help yourself move and oh god, the head of his cock pressed against a bright spot inside of you that made you see stars and you cried out loudly, frightening a flock of grouse from their hiding spot in the grass nearby. In answer to your cry, you heard a rough growl rumble through your chest as wet warmth leaked from within you.

When you came to your senses, you saw that Morgan looked just as fucked-out as you did, eyes dazed, muscles relaxed, and you realized that he had orgasmed when you had tightened around him in the throes of your climax.

“Been a while, darlin’?” you teased, but you took away the sting of your words by sliding off him and kissing the head of his cock. “It has been for me too,” you admitted, lapping away his release before it dribbled onto his clothes, making him moan softly before you tucked him back inside his pants.

Wiping your mouth, you stood, pulling your pants back on and sauntering to your tent.

“Hey, wait, aintcha gonna untie me?” Morgan called after you.

“You’re a big boy, you can sit for a spell.” You heard him spluttering and hissing expletives, but he went quiet when he realized that while you had been fucking, you had untied the rope that held him to the tree, and the other that held his arms to his sides. You really hoped he wouldn’t take off or try to get revenge for what you had done to him so far, but you thought that, based on his response to that last bit of abuse, maybe he would stick around to see what else you would do to him.


	3. Picking up a Trail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You decide to follow Arthur after he leaves only to find that he has encountered trouble while trying to escape you. It's up to you to save him and make sure he's okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Arthur whump in this chapter and only the barest mention of smut. Sorry. It'll come back around next chapter. :)

Your heart sank when you heard muted hoof steps riding away. You couldn’t say you were surprised, exactly, but damn, that was five hundred dollars all wrapped up in a very nice package thundering away on horseback. For a moment, you considered going after him, but after that performance, well, you thought Arthur Morgan had perhaps earned his freedom.

After cleaning yourself up, you dozed for a bit, and, after a solid afternoon’s nap and a dinner of venison and crackers, you decided to follow Morgan, maybe see where he was going and maybe, maybe, recapture him if you really felt like it. Feeling a bit like a cat toying with a particularly handsome mouse, you brushed your hair, dressed yourself in a clean shirt and comfortable jeans and climbed onto your horse, stopping to hunt and gather herbs for cooking. Letting your thoughts run rampant, you replayed your torrid tryst, remembering the color rising high in his cheeks from both anger and lust, the shudder that ran through him when you first took his cock into your mouth, that hitch in his breathing when you sucked _just so_ and…oh Christ…remembering the dazed expression on Morgan’s face post-orgasm, you began to actually put some effort into finding him, searching more thoroughly for signs of him as you wandered the wilds.

If nothing else, you wanted to scold the big man for going back on the deal to hunt bounties with you, and, if truth be told, you were more than a little offended he hadn't hung around for the opportunity to sleep with you again.

It took you about two weeks to find his trail, unsurprising given the long head start he’d had before you started looking for him in earnest. When you finally found the trail, it was obvious that it was his; those premium cigarette butts and wide boot prints were unmistakable. You snorted when you found an empty can of kidney beans wantonly discarded at an old camp. Morgan was being careless. You wondered if it was intentional. Your horse took you about seven miles down Morgan’s trail before you encountered a sudden cacophony of prints and signs of a scuffle. In the mud lay his hat. Climbing down off your horse, you picked up the hat, wiping it off and jamming it onto your head so it wouldn’t get lost. Something had happened to him. An agonized yelp sounded distantly. Correction, something was still happening to him.

The voice that had cried out was unmistakable and you heard another scream, then another and another. You spurred your horse to a run, plunging off its back and into some bushes near where you heard the cries before sneaking in closer to survey the scene.

Several men dressed all in black with green bandanas or green vests were surrounding Morgan. It appeared he had been camping and they had gotten the better of him, perhaps while he was sleeping or eating. He was on the ground, dirty, bleeding, his arms bound behind his back with a lasso pulled tight and it was clear that they were trying, not very successfully, to grab his legs to bind them as well.

“Oh, we’re gonna have fun with you, ladie,” one of them told him.

“Christ, man, just put a bullet in him and be done wi’ it!”

“You know damn well Colm will want him alive after what that bastard Dutch did to his brother, you fookin’ reprobate.”

“Ah didna mean kill him, you twat, just wing him a bit, tha’s all.”

“Just pile on, boys, the big bastard can’t fight off all of us.”

“He _did_ fight off all of us, that’s why only his hands are tied, idiot.”

As the men were discussing how best to abuse and restrain Morgan, you met his gaze through a filter of leaves. His eyes went wide but the expression on his face did not turn to relief. Instead his features showed that he honestly believed that he had simply hopped from the frying pan to the fire and back again. He tugged uselessly at the rope around his wrists and upper arms, crying out when one of them kicked him hard in the gut and you found it oddly attractive that he wasn’t trying to hold back his screams to try to prove something. A boot to the belly hurts – only men who feel they need to prove they are men don’t holler when they’re hurt.

“It’s getting dark,” one of them commented. “We best get him tied and done up to a tree.”

“You only want to be done with things because you want to drink, Dean.”

“Aye, of course, and why wouldn’t I? Let’s get on with it. Just bash him over the head if you hafta.” They group bickered amongst themselves and you shuffled forward. Morgan gave a subtle shake of his head. You agreed with him. There was no way you could take all of them, not while they were awake and not right now while there was still daylight.

_“I’ll help you. Stop struggling,”_ you mouthed as clearly as you could. Morgan pressed his eyes shut and you figured he was swallowing his pride. Men can do awful things to one another in the wilderness with no one watching. Morgan was probably fearful of what would happen if the group thought all the fight had gone out of him. You hoped he would just let them tie him up and stop giving them a reason to beat him bloody – well, bloodier anyway. Fighting, at this point, would only make things worse. You had no intention of letting anything worse happen to him, but you couldn’t take on the whole group just to stop a run-of-the-mill beating, unfortunately.

“Alright, O’Driscolls,” Morgan panted in a voice slurred by a cut lip and a swollen tongue. “Jest tie me up. I’m done.” The men looked at one another suspiciously before one of them was shoved forward by the rest of the group, the unlucky short straw who was either about to tie Morgan’s legs together or be kicked to death by him. Morgan allowed his legs to be bound, a defeated expression on his face. Like a lamb led to slaughter, Morgan met your eyes through the bracken, his face a mask of pain and desperation.

Thinking fast, you snuck back to your horse, shushing it with a carrot when it nickered softly.

You pulled one of your bear traps from your saddlebag. They weren’t a tool you enjoyed using, but you also didn’t enjoy being ambushed and eaten by wolves or bears or panthers if you had to camp in an area where they might be a risk. You prepared your trap, altering a stick of dynamite with your hunting knife and tucking it into your bag with care. You sank into the brush again, hearing another blow land, a pained grunt and then a cacophony of laughter that made you want to slaughter the entire camp. All in good time.

Watching their movements closely, you peered through the bushes, concerned when you lost sight of Morgan. Well, he wouldn’t be leaving the camp anytime soon at least, and he was nowhere near where you needed to set your trap. Working quickly, you opened the trap and set it where you had seen one of the men pacing on guard before scurrying away from it. It was just far enough away from the main camp that your harebrained idea of taking out all the men at once might work. Maybe. You hoped.

It was fully dark now and you struggled to see by the light of the fire. Where the hell had they put Morgan?

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Those bastards!” you muttered when you finally realized where Morgan was – strung up from his ankles and his wrists from a low hanging branch with his back to the ground like a goddamn rotisserie chicken. And you’d felt bad for hanging him by his ankles for a few minutes. His head was slung back limply, his blackened eyes closed, hair falling around his ears. You didn’t have time to feel pity for him now – a blood-curdling scream had just shaken the night.

“Oh Jesus, oh Christ, oh God!” shrieked the man who had stepped into the bear trap. The others ran to his assistance, cursing and hollering. Chaos ensued as they struggled to open the jaws of the trap, some of them helping, others laughing and continuing to drink while watching. You pulled the half stick of dynamite from your pouch, lit it and threw it, plugging your ears with your fingers. The shockwave still knocked you over, but you were in one piece. The same could not be said for most of the O’Driscolls.

“Christ on the cross,” one of them screamed, dragging himself toward the fire where the group had left rifles leaning. You put a quick end to him with your sidearm. The rest were either dead or unconscious. Good enough.

“Come on, big guy,” you crooned, untying first Morgan’s legs, then his arms. He collapsed from the branch he had been dangling from with a soft groan of pain, you catching most of his not-insubstantial weight. “Really need you to try to stand, fella,” you told him, knowing you don’t have it in you to carry him again. You’re really hoping there weren’t any more of this gang in the area. They seemed to have quite the beef with Morgan and you’d really rather not find yourself in the middle of it. “Morgan.” He didn’t respond. “Arthur,” you called him, holding his chin, pushing his heavy head up. His eyes are unfocused, his mouth hanging open slightly. You resisted the urge to reach out and touch their soft plushness, opting instead to smack your palm starkly against his stubbled cheek. “Arthur!”

“M’up, Ms. Grimshaw!” he blurted, coming upright so quickly he nearly butted his head into yours. “Oh…er, it’s you,” he mumbled, seemingly unimpressed with your daring rescue of him. You ignored the displeased expression on his handsome features and tugged him to his feet.

“We gotta go, handsome man, come on!”

“Ain’t handsome,” he grumbled under his breath, and you gave him an amused look, seeing his cheeks go red.

“Uh huh. Where’s your horse? Can you whistle for it?” He obliged, and you did the same, but the way he’s wobbling, you didn’t think he could keep himself upright in the saddle. His foot missed his stirrup twice as he tried to pull himself up, nearly falling over as he clung to the saddle horn. “Forget it. Come on, hun, you can climb up here with me. In the front so you don’t fall off,” you told him after climbing onto your mount. You held a hand down for him to take, grunting as you helped pull his weight up. You grasped the reins, one arm on either side of his broad chest, standing in your stirrups so you can see over his shoulder, but you only have to do so for a moment. “Better call your horse,” you suggested, not sure if the animal will follow willingly without Morgan’s instruction.

“Come on, girl,” he called to the mare in a weak, garbled voice, and then he lost consciousness, slumping forward heavily. You kept your arms around him, holding the reins and thanking your lucky stars that you don’t have to stretch to see over him now. You needed a safe place, somewhere you could see how badly injured he was and tend to him. From your map, you knew there was a town not too far away with a hotel, so you turned your horse’s nose in that direction and spurred it into action, your arms cradling Morgan in place so that the big outlaw didn’t fall. The thought did not occur to you not to help. It’s what set you apart from all the other bounty hunters you’d met. Where most others only saw a pile of money, you saw a person.

“Hang on, darlin’,” you murmured next to his ear. “You’ll be alright.”

You pushed the horses hard, slapping the reins across your mount’s hindquarters.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” you apologized, “I’ll get you plenty of apples when we get into town.”

As promised, you quickly set yours and Morgan’s horse up in the stables, grabbing your satchel and Morgan's saddlebag full of clothes from his horse, half-carrying half-guiding Morgan in the direction of the inn. He was at least awake now, but clearly in pain.

“Come on, big fella, you’ll make it,” you told him, and he gave you a nasty look, but didn’t argue.

Instead, Morgan peered at you through squinted eyes and slurred, “That’s my hat.”

“Sure is, honey. I’ll get it back to you presently, hang on. I need a bath prepared and a room, please,” you told the beleaguered-looking hotel clerk as you pulled Morgan into the lobby.

“I’ll get it going for ya. Hey, you ain’t gonna cause any trouble, are ya?” he asked, surveying the gun on your hip, your non-feminine clothing and the state of the man who’s barely keeping his feet.

“Don’t we look like we already caused enough for one day, partner?” you asked him in a tired voice.

“Go on up. But you cause any problems and I’m callin’ the authorities.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you griped. You’d heard it all before. Fine, upstanding people don’t go into bounty hunting. You had your own reasons for getting into it, but they aren’t any of the inn keep’s business. “Come on, fella, you sit,” you groaned as you lowered Morgan’s weight onto a bench, “right here, and I’ll go put our stuff in the room. Hand me your satchel.”

“You stay the hell away from my things,” he mumbled, clutching the strap of his satchel stubbornly.

“Have it your way then,” you replied, darting up the stairs just long enough to drop off your things and check the room. Morgan was slumped heavily against the wall when you got back down the stairs, one arm holding his side and breathing in painful gasps where he sat on the bench. “That bath ready yet?” you addressed the inn keep.

“Right down the hall,” he answered, still eyeing them both suspiciously.

You lugged Arthur into the bathroom and helped him out of his clothes, this time judiciously and without all the bedroom eyes you’d been making last time. Neither of you was in the mood for flirtation, least of all him. He was covered in bruises and his ribcage on the right side was making an awful clicking noise every time he took a breath.

“You gonna,” he gasped out, “you gonna try to kill me in the tub again?” You chuckled.

“Not this time. Here, let me help you.” You knew he must have been in a great deal of pain, because he offered no resistance whatsoever. This bathing experience was entirely different from the last time. Morgan was slumped dully in the water, clearly not enjoying himself this time. You picked up a rag and swabbed it in the water, wiping it lightly over his lip, which was split and bloody. He let out a piteous little moan when you touched his jaw, lifting a hand to test a tooth, which wiggled slightly when he touched it. Cringing, you smeared away a gob of mud from his cheek and massaged his neck gently, checking for injury. Morgan hissed when you lifted his arm, but you couldn’t find any breaks. The worst injury seemed to be to his ribs, two of which appeared to be broken. “Not much I can do for that except bind them,” you told him. “And it looks like you took one hell of a blow to the head. Other than that, you’re alright.”

“Yeah, shoar, just back in custody again,” he griped. You put your hands on your hips.

“Do you see any ropes on you?” you asked him pointedly. He rubbed his rope-burned wrists for a moment before looking up at you with those unbelievably blue eyes of his. “Here.” You jabbed a towel toward him. “I’ll give you some privacy, provided you aren’t gonna pass out again and drown.”

An oddly vulnerable look crossed his features and you paused.

“Can you, uh…can you stay for a minute?” he asked, swallowing and going bright red.

“Sure,” you told him simply. “I need a bath anyway.” You dropped your clothing nonchalantly as he stepped out of the tub, entertained when you saw that he was pointedly looking away from you. “It’s alright,” you chuckled, “you can look.”

“Ain’t right,” he slurred out. “What we done, it weren’t right.”

“Oh well, Mr. Prim-and-Proper, I’ll be sure to consult the handbook next time,” you said dryly as you scrubbed yourself down. You were a bit sore from the concussion of the dynamite and the hard ride, but you were otherwise okay. Morgan, on the other hand, looked ready to fall over at any moment. You tugged your clothes back on and helped Morgan into his union suit. He didn’t fight you this time when you slung his satchel over your shoulder and plopped his hat on your own head again. You didn’t bother with dressing him the rest of the way, instead guiding him up the back stairs to your room, huffing and puffing with the effort of half-lifting the heavy man. You locked the door and slung a chair beneath the handle.

Morgan, sitting woozily on the bed, huffed a laugh.

“Got enemies too, huh?”

“What, you think men _like_ being turned in by a woman for money?” you laughed. Morgan reddened and turned his back to you, lying down wearily on the bed. You got the feeling he thought you had insulted his intelligence for asking, and you felt bad. In moments, however, he was snoring, so you couldn’t apologize. Well, since you would have to apologize already, you figured you might as well commit a few more sins to roll in with it. Very quietly, so not as to disturb him (and not to get caught), you opened his satchel and pulled out that journal of his.

You flipped through it, curious if he had written or drawn anything in it in the past two weeks while you had been trailing him. One entry in particular caught your eye.

_Met a woman in Winnsboro. Met, well, more like nearly got myself killed by her. Turns out she was a bounty hunter, a real little hellcat. She was a pretty thing, all spitfire and vinegar. Managed to get me naked and knocked out in the tub. Don’t think I’ll ever be able to relax in a bath again._

There was a break of pages filled with little sketches of frogs, and leaves, plants and birds. All manner of wildlife and flowers, and fungi. You turned the page. Upon it was quite a good rendition of your face.

_Y/N,_ it read, _or so she told me. Heaven knows if that is her real name. I don’t know why I’m writing about her again. Well, I do. She took me in a moment of weakness. I ain’t never been one for casual things, but hell, I was lonely. Don’t quite know what came over me. She was pretty, and soft in all the right places, I guess. But there was just something about her. It was irresistible. I fear I have gone and played myself for a fool again, but we shall see. I find I can’t stop thinking about her. She had me fair and square and let me loose. Still don’t quite understand why she did that, or why she asked me to help her hunt bounties in exchange for my absolute freedom from her. I ain’t fool enough to believe she won’t turn me in too once I help her catch them other bounties, so I split._

There was another page break, this time filled with sketch of what appeared to be a hemp plant.

_Tried some of this. A man told me it helped with joint pain. Slept the rest of the day. Vivid dreams. Made me feel the need to eat half the candy and crackers in my pack afore I passed out._

Another page break, this one with a quick sketch of a skunk, and a badger, then…

_I find I cannot stop thinking about Y/N. I don’t rightly know why, but there it is. I keep thinking about circling back, finding her, but damn that bounty on my head._

And that was where it ended. You nearly jumped out of your skin when your gaze flicked up to check on Morgan and saw that he was staring at you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“You about done stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong, miss?” he asked in a soft voice, but it was full of menace.

“Shit,” you mumbled. “Sorry.”

“Naw, you ain’t.”

“No, I ain’t,” you admitted with a chagrined look. “It’s just…you’re interesting, Mr. Morgan. And your drawings are exceptional.” He scowled, forcing himself to sit up and taking the journal from you. Wincing, he held his head for a moment, before finally setting the journal down on the stand next to the bed.

“Please…please don’t get into my things again,” he asked you, meeting your eyes intently. “I ask for very little in this world,” he slurred, sounding defeated. “Didn’t think it’d be too much to ask to have some privacy when it come to my journal.” You nodded, feeling like quite the villain now.

“I _am_ sorry. It won’t happen again.” He hummed a sound of disbelief and rolled over, curling in on himself. “You want me to bind those ribs for you?” you asked.

“’m fine,” he insisted quietly, and you could tell he was tired again, on the verge of sleep. You pulled off your shirt and pants, leaving yourself in nothing but your form-fitting union suit, which was a soft cotton similar to Morgan’s. You crawled into the bed with him, pulling the worn quilts up over you both, static sparking between you and him and the blankets. He gave a slight flinch when you curled around him protectively, feeling strangely tender toward the big gunslinger. “The hell is you doin’, woman?” he asked, on edge.

“Not a damn thing, Mr. Morgan,” you answered him, snuggling close. “Just sleeping.” As though to prove your point, you nestled your head deeper into the pillow and very carefully wrapped your arm around his torso, careful to avoid his injured rib. “We’ll talk in the morning.”


	4. Wanted Dead or Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You reveal a revelation to Arthur in the hopes that he will trust you. Meanwhile, you wonder what to do about these feelings you've developed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I decided to give you, my dear Reader, a bit more backstory for this fic for the sake of the very small amount of plot this story will have. Hopefully it works okay and is still immersive and enjoyable for you to read. I am absolutely exhausted as I type this, so my apologies for all the typos. 
> 
> CW: vaginal sex  
> CW: oral sex  
> CW: swallowing

You woke up slowly, and then all at once, gasping in a breath and coming upright before you realized where you were and who you were with. Morgan mumbled something in his sleep and stirred, a pained noise bubbling out of his throat. His eyes were swollen and bruised, his wrists were red from the ropes, and he was breathing with a crackle from those broken ribs. Very carefully, you curled yourself around him again, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear where it had fallen in his face. You studied him, looking at the shallow crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, and the stray eyebrows that stuck up awkwardly where they had been rubbed in his sleep. His plush pink lips were drawn into a slight pucker as he snuffled in his sleep, cuddling his head into the pillow and taking a shuddering breath against the pain of his injured ribs. His skin was tanned and sun-damaged from long hours outside, and occasional capillaries were visible across his nose and along his cheeks. A smattering of freckles dusted his cheekbones, and the stubble along his jaw sported a few hairs that were either very light blonde, or already gray from a life spent on the run, though he was surely no more than twenty-five or so.

Frowning, you wondered where he had come from and who his allegiance was to, remembering mentions of someone named “Dutch” by the O’Driscoll group and in Arthur’s journal.

You laid for a long while next to him, enjoying the warmth and the rest, but you knew he needed to eat something. Pulling on a simple skirt and a button-up blouse, you padded downstairs to the bar, which also had a kitchen, yawning and running your fingers through your hair.

“Anybody working this morning?” you called. A man poked his head out of the kitchen window.

“What can I do for ya, miss?” he asked in a deep baritone.

“Breakfast for two, please. Four eggs sunny side up, two bowls of cheese grits, four strips of bacon and some tomato oughta do it.”

“Anything else?” the man chuckled, gazing at you with deep chocolate eyes. You realized your tone had been a little gruff, so you softened, smiling at him.

“Some coffee would really round it out.”

“You got it, miss. Be ready in about ten minutes. I’ll get it started right now.”

“Thank you,” you told him sincerely.

You carried the two plates up with a pot of fresh coffee and two mugs, all balanced on a tray. Unlocking the door, you stepped inside to find Morgan stretching languidly, wincing and holding his chest for a moment.

“Brought some breakfast,” you told him, feeling immediately foolish for stating the obvious, but his face lit up.

“Why, thank you,” Morgan said, tone surprised. His brows drew together as you handed him the plate and silverware. He balanced it in his lap, not bothering to sit at the small table in the corner of the room, so you sat there instead, hungrily wolfing down your food. “Why are you helpin’ me?” he asked you finally, taking a deep sip of coffee.

“Told you already, Morgan. I like you.”

“Arthur,” he mumbled. “Might as well call me by my Christian name since we’ve known one another biblically.” You smirked at that.

“Fair enough, Arthur. I don’t know. I’ve got a good feeling about you. Get the sense you’re a man who has always been in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Arthur sniggered and the smile on his face, blackened and bruised though he was, was one of the prettiest ones you’d ever seen.

“You’ve got that about right,” he admitted.

“So why did you take off on me?” you asked him. He met your eyes.

“Listen, I was born at night but wasn’t born _last_ night. If I help you with them bounties, you’re just gonna turn me in right after.” You scoffed at him, mildly insulted at the insinuation.

“Or I’ll hand you your money and you can go pay off that damn bounty on your head,” you snapped, frustrated. “My word is my bond, Arthur. Here, let’s shake on it.” You crossed the room and thrust a hand out at him, standing imperiously over him, waiting for him to take it. His eyes narrowing, he studied your face with intensity before an amused expression crossed his and he reached out a big paw and took your hand. His palm was calloused, but warm, and his grip was strong. You gave an involuntary shiver at the thought of those fingers plunging inside you and forced yourself to focus.

Arthur’s face had warmed, his eyes softened and for a moment you were speechless, having forgotten entirely what you were going to say to him until you blinked, and then cleared your throat. “I, Y/N, do solemnly swear that I will fairly share any bounty awards with you, Mr. Arthur Morgan, should you assist me in their capture. Upon capture and submission of the previously discussed bounties, I will destroy your bounty poster and will let you leave freely. Additionally, I will set all other bounty hunters looking for you onto the wrong trail, so help me God. _Unless_ you take off on me again without prior warning, in which case I will hunt you down, tie you six ways from Sunday and collect the five-hundred dollar reward for your pretty head. There, good enough?” you asked him in a sassy tone to match your sarcastic perspicuity.

Arthur laughed, a true laugh, deeply amused and friendly. He shook your hand and met your eyes, his own glittering in a way that made your knees go weak.

“Good enough, Miss Y/N.”

“Was that breakfast enough?” you asked him, your brain going a bit haywire given that his hand was still holding yours in a gentle grip.

“I reckon so,” he told you softly, realizing he hadn’t released your hand and doing so with an abrupt motion. He scratched the back of his head, looking away. You nodded, took his empty plate and stacked yours on it, heading toward the door. On a whim, your chest feeling strangely tight, you looked over your shoulder at him.

“It wasn’t a mistake, you know. What we did. It wasn’t bad…or wrong. And…it can happen again. Just…wanted you to know.”

With that, you darted out the door so that you didn’t have to hear his response, so you didn’t have to hear him tell you that it won’t happen again, because he doesn’t want it to or because he thought it would be improper. You realized with a shock that hearing him say that would hurt. You knew he had been thinking about you, you knew his journal said so, and here’s the truth: these past two weeks, he was all you could think about too.

You shuffled downstairs, handing the plates off at the kitchen and walking out into the cool morning air. You stopped by the sheriff’s office to see if any significant bounties were available, but there was nothing more than ten and twenty-five dollar bounties, not worth your time. Unless, of course, you would be here for a few days. You twisted your lips to the side and chewed the inside of your cheek, thinking, before finally plucking one from the wall. Might as well pay for your room and board with an easy bounty. You checked on Arthur’s horse at the livery before saddling yours and riding out after the bounty you had selected. It wouldn’t take you more than an afternoon to wrap this one up.

The woman, Carol Penny, was wanted for scamming multiple men, telling them that her no-good ex-fiancé had left her in tremendous debt to a money-lender. She had no choice but to sell her engagement ring, but the awful money lender that she owed wouldn’t accept anything but cash, even though her engagement ring was worth a fortune, as least as much as a well-trained Thoroughbred, or so she would tell them. She was desperate she would say, and would take whatever money they happened to have on them in exchange for the ring so that she could have some cash to get herself out of this mess. Feeling as though they had just stumbled upon an opportunity of a lifetime, several men had “bought” the ring for all the money in their purse, only to discover that it was made of tin with glass as a stone, nearly worthless.

Personally, you were a big fan of Penny’s work hoodwinking greedy dumbasses, but a bounty was a bounty, so you rode out to the secluded cabin she was holed up in, trying your damnedest not to think about Arthur constantly. You couldn’t get him off your mind. His soft spoken words, his kind eyes, his wide hands and gentle smile. His drawings and his writing, all that guilt and all that anger wrapped up in such an intriguing individual. Pushing him from your mind, you knocked on the door of the cabin, gaining entrance and taking Penny into custody. It wasn’t much of a challenge, even with your mind distracted as it was. Once she saw the gun on your hip and realized she could just pay off her bounty, she went willingly, but it took the better part of the day to return to town. Certain that you would lose your damn mind if Arthur had run off again, you stepped into the livery with your horse with baited breath, relieved to find that his horse was still stabled.

A big believer in smelling as little like horses and dirt as possible when trying to woo a man, you took a bath before climbing the stairs to your room. You knocked on the door, unlocking it and stepping inside. Arthur was lying on the bed, but was clearly awake when you came in. Swallowing, you glanced at the clock on the side table, realizing how late it had gotten.

“Want some dinner?” you asked him.

“Been thinkin’,” he mumbled, sitting up gingerly, and you sat in the chair where you had eaten breakfast that morning, unsure what was about to come out of his mouth next. “‘Bout what you said,” he clarified, without clarifying at all. After a long, uncomfortable moment, Arthur looked up at you, wiping a hand through his hair. “I don’t…carry on with women…casually. Now, I…I’ve got my reasons, and I don’t wanna get into ‘em, but…I can’t share this bed with you no more. I can’t bed you again…I can’t…” He had looked away from you during this awkward stammering admission and you paced forward, hellbent on honesty after spending the better part of the day working through how you felt about this man. Arthur glanced up in surprise to find you right in front of him and you leaned down, pressing a kiss to his lips, bumping your forehead gently against his.

“Why don’t we just see where things go?” you murmured. “You’re kind, and you’re patient, and you’re funny, and you’re talented,” you told him, remembering everything you had read in his journal. “All of that, that’s more than a picture on a poster, more than a dollar sign on a bounty board. I’d like the chance to get to know you, if you’d let me.” You let out a deep sigh, reaching for your satchel. “You said before that you think I’d turn you in after all this. Maybe this will change your mind.” Your hands were trembling so much you thought you’d drop it. It was tattered, yellowed with age and various stains. You kept it in your bag, a reminder of who you were, something to keep you humble, and something that always kept you on edge. Unfolding the page, you handed it to him. “You hang onto that. When we get done with everything, I’ll shred that bounty poster of yours, like I promised this morning, so long as you give that back.”

Arthur took the paper, brows furrowed, glancing from it to you. Upon it was a tintype photograph of you, your rifle slung over your shoulder, an arrogant look painted on your features. The hand not holding your rifle was nonchalantly curled over your neckerchief, which had been pulled away from your face before the picture was taken. Your lip was curled in some combination of amusement and disgust and there was a glitter in your eyes that told anyone looking that you were dangerous and capable.

“ _WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE_ ,” read the poster in faded black letters. “ _$1,000.00 for the capture of the woman who murdered and robbed her way across three counties in Utah. Believed to be accompanied by this man...”_ The printed name had faded from the bounty poster, washed away years ago by spilled coffee, but it still hurt to think about him.

_“This picture is a good likeness of Y/N,”_ stated the photograph caption. There was a clinical, almost insulting description of you beneath it, a dull catalogue of your height, eye color, hair color and weight. _“A notorious robber of trains and banks, this young woman is desperate and skilled with a gun. Contact: Pinkerton Detective Agency and Union Pacific Railroad Agency. $1,000.00 REWARD. This notice takes the place of all previous reward notices. Contact Sheriff Whitehorse, Juab County, Utah for further information. July 17, 1882.”_

“Who was the man accompanying you?” Arthur asked softly, not meeting your eyes.

“He was…very important to me. We were supposed to be married,” you told him, voice cracking. Arthur’s eyes met your own and a look of such intense understanding crossed his features that for a moment, it was as though you were each staring into the other’s souls. “But, he died shortly after this was posted seven years ago. Killed by someone we thought we could trust. So when I tell you,” you continued, your voice trembling, “that I understand you, and that I think you are more than just a bounty, you know that I am telling the truth. For the first time in nearly seven years, I’m alright with something more than just a casual fling. For the first time in seven years, I’m lonely. I know you’re lonely too, but you don’t have to be.”

You walked across the small room away from him, collecting yourself and folding the clothing you had paid to have washed that afternoon while you were out. You packed it into your satchel, wondering what he was thinking, wondering what he would say. You heard him fold the paper and tuck it into his satchel, then heard him stand and pad toward you. Turning, you looked into clear blue eyes, unsure of what to do or say next. He answered that question for you, planting a soft kiss on your lips.

“I reckon we can get to know each other,” he told you in a husky voice. “How about we start with dinner?”

\-------------

The next two weeks were torture. You found various odd jobs in town when you got bored, finding back alley poker games where even a woman playing wouldn’t draw more than the barest odd look. You would return to the hotel with your winnings, grab dinner for both you and Arthur and trudge upstairs. He spent most of the days sleeping, or writing or drawing, only occasionally leaving the room to play blackjack or dominoes in the bar downstairs. He was getting restless, but his ribs needed time to heal. Meanwhile, nights were spent curled next to him, sleeping.

_Just_ sleeping.

Tormented by this big, handsome body next to you that you couldn’t bed, you found yourself tossing and turning late one evening and went downstairs for a few drinks before stumbling back up and sliding under the covers, looking over at Arthur’s silhouette in the weak moonlight filtering in from the window. Sighing, you ran your hand down your stomach and between your legs, biting your lip as you rubbed a finger across the little bundle of nerves at the front of your slit, giving a soft sigh as you imagined it being his finger instead. You stroked yourself, your breath hitching as you thought of him lapping his tongue along your slit and then his mouth pressing warm and wet against your quim, sucking on sensitive tissue and sinking a thick finger inside of you, rubbing against your walls and stroking against your core until you…

A small cry escaped your lips and you clamped your free hand over your own mouth, feeling yourself redden as Arthur stirred. Satisfied after a moment that you had not awoken him, you continued your fantasy, grinding up into your own hand and imagining pressing your thighs against his ears, his stubble scratching the insides of your legs as he…

“You want some help with that?” Arthur purred in a hoarse voice and you jumped, turning to look at him. He didn’t wait for an answer, instead sliding his hand down between the two of you and grabbing your hand from between your legs. It was slick with your own juices, but he didn’t seem to care as he guided it into the front of his union suit and let you wrap it around his cock, which was rigid and hot.

“Oh Christ,” you moaned.

“Just Arthur,” he assured you with a soft chuckle. “What do you want?” he asked as you began to pump him up and down in fast, desperate strokes that made him shiver.

“You,” you gasped, “inside me. Now.” Arthur laughed, a low rumble through your chest as he lay beside you, lazily thrusting into your hand.

“Don’t think I can move so well as I’d like with these ribs, but–” You cut him off with a hard kiss, fingers sinking into his hair and pulling him on top of you and shoving his union suit away, scrambling out of yours with a quickness.

“I’ll take whatever you can give me,” you told him, breathless. Arthur reached a hand between you again, this time dipping his fingers inside you, just like you had imagined and that was all it took for the orgasm you had been building up earlier to overtake you, letting out a soft scream and scratching your nails against his scalp with one hand while your grip on his cock with the other slowed in the moment, your whole body tightening. You shoved the blankets covering you away, watching his fingers appear and reappear from inside you as his moved his wrist. Your juices were covering his palm, drenching the flesh there with your arousal and he moaned as you kept up your steady stroking of his erection. Arthur pulled away just long enough to roll on top of you and align the head of his cock with your slit. He rubbed it across the sensitive flesh there, mouth open in a pant before sliding home, wincing slightly as he bent over you. “Are you alright?” you asked, running your hand along his side carefully.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, slowly pulling out and then sliding back in. A strangled grunt toppled out of him, and you could tell he was still in pain. The bruises on his face had faded, but those ribs were still sore.

“I have a better idea,” you told him. “I’ll take you in my mouth, and you pleasure me with your fingers and tongue.” Arthur looked baffled at the suggestion.

“How do I…?”

“I’ll tell you what feels good,” you promised. “Just be gentle.” You let him get comfortable on the bed and then positioned your hips over his chin, leaning across his stomach and down so that you could suck on his cock. You took him in your mouth, rolling his balls in your hand as you did so. Arthur huffed out a sound of surprise as you engulfed him entirely, swallowing to avoid gagging over his length as your nose pressed against his inner thigh. He tugged your hips down and you felt an experimental tongue lap softly at your entrance. You reached a hand down and rubbed across the pink nub at the front of your slit, grinning when Arthur batted your hand away, rubbing it for you instead. He was inexperienced at this, but he was an eager learner. His tongue lapped inside of you and his arousal grew once he had tasted you, him burying his face in the fold of your leg and nibbling at the supple skin. Arthur’s fingers squeezed into the meat of your legs, pulling your hips down so that you were sitting on his face as you ran your mouth up and down the length of his cock, fingernails scratching at the soft insides of his muscular legs.

His stubble scratched at the insides of your thighs as you ground down onto him, little sighs of pleasure pouring from your lips as Arthur moved his mouth and his hands between your legs, stroking and sucking at your flower petal folds. Arthur seemed contented to stay there forever and you were thrilled to have him there. He occasionally lifted you to take a deep breath, nipping at the soft skin where your leg met your torso, leaving you dazed and half-distracted from your own task, his cock pressing insistently into your mouth and his balls tightening in your hand as he came closer and closer to orgasm. Arthur’s wet lips enveloped your clit and he sucked and oh, oh God the shock that tore through you was transcendental. You sucked on his cock in earnest, head bobbing up and down enthusiastically as his fingers curled inside of you and you climaxed, walls pressing around his thick fingers as his tongue rubbing across your clit ended you, forcing you to throw your head back, his cock flopping onto his own thigh with a wet sound.

“Oh Arthur!” you cried, hips grinding into his mouth. He laughed, he actually fucking laughed and it sent shivers up your spine, vibrations running through your core and you came again with a squeak of pleasure.

“It may hurt, but I gotta,” he said suddenly, forcibly turning you around to face him and tugging your hips down until you were once again aligned with his cock. He pressed up into your slit, moaning a sound that was something between pained and satisfied, so you took over, rolling your hips up and down over his thickness, purring at the sensation of being stretched open again, at being filled with a rigid hardness that pressed and rubbed against all the right places. His fingers sank into the globes of your asscheeks, holding onto hard muscle and digging into soft fat. Arthur lifted you up and down and you helped with the motion, snapping your hips down to meet his and pleasure rolled over you again, making you go nearly cross-eyed. “Oh God, I can’t take it no more, I gotta,” he whimpered and you pulled off him before he filled you with his release, instead taking his erection into your mouth again, letting him spurt himself onto your tongue and swallowing greedily as he gazed at you in awe, apparently shocked that you were willing to do so.

You clambered up to lie next to him, amused that he was still sucking in hard breaths, eyes wide at what had just happened.

“Ain’t never done anythin’ like that before,” he admitted. “That was somethin’.”

“You miss out on a lot, being a prude,” you teased him. Arthur scowled and pursed his lips at you, grabbing a pillow and covering your face with it playfully.

“I just had my dick in your mouth and my tongue in your quim. I _ain’t_ a prude,” he insisted, and you laughed.

“I guess this means your ribs are nearly healed. Oughta get back on the road,” you said regretfully. Arthur looked away from you evasively, scratching his chin.

“I know I agreed to help you find them bounties…”

“Oh Arthur,” you began to scold, your post-climax haze ruined.

“Now, I ain’t finished,” he crowed, holding up a hand to stop your tirade. Meeting your eyes, he swallowed. “I kinda run off on my gang for a bit. Need to check in with ‘em before I do anything else.”

“And I can’t come with you because I’m a no-good bounty hunter, is that it?” you asked, annoyed. Arthur barked a laugh.

“I’ve got a bounty in my satchel that says you’re worth twice what I am. Naw, what I was going to say is…will you come with me?”


	5. Darlin', Sweetheart, Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Arthur board a stagecoach and the two of you stumble around one another, trying and failing not to fall for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot? What plot? A lot of this is fluff and smut and I'm not even a little bit sorry. If you like what you're reading, you can let me know, or if you have any helpful suggestions, I'm happy to get those too. You can follow me on Tumblr, I'm @finefeatheredgamer :)

Arthur was hilariously awkward the next morning, all shy smiles and reddened cheeks, reaching out to touch you, and then thinking better of it. As you gathered your things, you saw him hovering in the corner of your eye, fiddling with his own belongings and fussing with buckles and straps on his chaps and gun belts. You knew one another well enough now, having spent the past two weeks chatting over dinners and breakfast, but the sex last night somehow changed things with Arthur, altered the dynamic between you two. You realized that his hesitation to bed you was deep-seated, and he was trying not to show you affection, struggling not to envelop you, struggling not to pull you close or grab your hand, or kiss you until you were breathless. You got the impression that he had a hard time sleeping with a woman without feeling for her – without falling for her. He was fighting himself, fighting the urge to let himself care about you. It was almost as though he was convinced you wouldn’t want him to. But you did and you wanted to show Arthur that, so you approached him from behind, wrapping your arms around his waist and stepping up on tiptoe to rest your head on his shoulder.

You felt him melt.

It was subtle, and if you’d been distracted even a little, you would have missed it, but Arthur just sort of…softened into you, his muscles relaxing and his head tilting to bump against the side of yours. His big hands covered yours and you heard him make a tiny hum of contentment in his throat that was probably unintentional. You tucked your hips up tight behind his ass, cuddling your head deeper into the area where his shoulder met his neck. You smoothed your hand up from his waist across his abdomen, almost laughing when he sucked in his belly, and rested your hand over his chest, feeling his heart beating beneath your fingers.

“I–” he stuttered, and you saw him blink quickly. He was overwhelmed with the sensation of being touched, of being held close, and you swallowed, feeling your chest grow warm.

“Thank you. For last night,” you whispered tenderly. Arthur turned in your grip, rearranging your limbs so that your arms were still around him, but you were facing one another.

“You liked it?” he asked, voice small and unsure.

“I loved it,” you assured him. “You oughta be more sure of yourself, Arthur. You’re a wonderful partner.” His eyelids fluttered and he smirked a little bit.

“Well…thank ya,” he said, eternally gawky. You chuckled and took his hand.

“We better get on the road. If your men are two states over, that’s a lot of riding. Fortunately, one of my bounties is there too.” Arthur’s face went pale and he stuttered in place. A shock went through you as you realized – what if one of the bounty posters you had was for one of his gang? “Here, you oughta have a look at these,” you suggested to break the tense moment. You pulled the four posters from your bag and laid them out on the bed so that he could survey them. He leaned over them, reading through the descriptions and looking at the pictures and drawings of each wanted man. “Anyone you know?” you asked in a tight voice.

“Used to play cards with that feller there,” Arthur admitted and your heart sank. “He’s a real son-of-a-bitch,” Arthur clarified, crossing his arms over his chest. He glanced at you and chuckled. “And I got a bounty in my bag says he’s worth five hundred, not three.”

“Well, shit,” you responded, eyebrows raising. “Shoulda gone into business with another bounty hunter a long time ago.”

“Well, now, I ain’t really a bounty hunter,” Arthur drawled, shaking his head. “More of a, uh…”

“Renaissance man?” you suggested helpfully with a bemused expression. “A Jack-of-all-trades?” He gave you a nervous look, chuckled and shrugged.

“Shoar, I guess.”

“Come on, then. Lots to do.” Arthur gathered the posters, handing them back to you. His fingers brushed over yours when he did so, and his breath hitched. You looked up at him, saw the want in his eyes, but knew you had a lot of distance to travel, and those ribs weren’t quite healed. You had hired a stagecoach to get the two of you to the next state over. The journey would take three days, at least. Your eyes flicked to Arthur’s lips, running along his chest, down to his groin before you forced yourself to look away, forced yourself not to imagine him on top of you again, or between your legs, or behind you, using your hair as reins as he rode you... Perhaps at night when you stopped…or in the stagecoach on the way…

\-----------------

“You shoar we can’t just ride there?” Arthur griped, looking irritated at the prospect of being caught in a small, hot box for the next few days. You pulled him up close to you, using your saddlebag to block the driver’s view as you rubbed a hand suggestively over Arthur’s groin. He hissed in a breath, brows raising and you bit your lower lip.

“Can’t get into any good mischief on horseback, now can we? Come on, get in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said obediently, and you blushed red at the feelings that gave you. There were no other passengers on this coach, which was fortunate, because the puppy dog eyes Arthur had made at you when you told him to get into the stagecoach nearly had you twitching with want. Arthur sat across from you in the comfortable coach, settling into the seats with a satisfied noise in his throat. You waited until the stagecoach was moving, rolling at a steady speed down the muddy road before you glanced up at Arthur with a suggestive smirk. Unsure of himself, Arthur half smiled at you and pulled his journal out, writing something, his tongue caught at the corner of his mouth while he worked. You would have been irritated had the expression not been so damn cute. Getting the feeling he would be a while, you glanced out the foggy windows of the coach, watching trees and flowers pass by, but you were distracted, thinking about his hands on you, his mouth on you.

You had worn a skirt specifically so you could give Arthur easy access and you intended to make wearing the damn thing worth your while. You hadn’t bothered with undergarments, instead donning an airy chemise beneath your skirt. Snoozing for a while, you cracked open one eye and saw that Arthur had finally put his journal away.

“What’d you draw?” you asked him. He glowered at you.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he challenged and you laughed, seeing the glitter in his eye. He chuckled too and reached out a hand to take yours. “Just puttin’ my thoughts down to paper. Nothin’ special.”

“Really?” you asked him, rucking your skirt up a bit so that he could see a sliver of leg beneath the material. He cleared his throat, reaching up and tugging at his shirt collar. “Well, if you’re done putting your thoughts down, I have something else you could write about that might be more interesting.” His eyes went wide.

“You crazy, woman? There’s a stagecoach driver right outside.”

“Yeah,” you remarked. “ _Outside_. And he’ll be there for a while, minding his own business.” You thought that it would take more persuasion than that, that you would have to tease him, maybe put your foot in his lap and stroke your toes against his cock to get him interested, but in an instant, his knees had knocked against the floor of the carriage and he had shoved your skirts up, meeting your gaze with pupils blown wide with lust. His self-control was apparently all or nothing.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about tastin’ you again all day,” he admitted, his throat deep and husky. With that, he grabbed your legs and tossed them over his shoulders so the backs of your thighs rested on his collarbone, your calves sitting prettily against the wide muscles of his back. Arthur buried his face between your legs, lapping and biting your inner thighs and then licking your slit from back to front with a moan. “Oh darlin’, you taste so…” He didn’t finish his sentence, opting instead to thrust his tongue inside of you, nibbling at your folds and sucking at the wet skin there, humming and groaning to himself as he worked, his chin rubbing against the cleft of your ass, his stubble scratching at your skin in a way that drove you nearly to madness.

Arthur laved his tongue in irregular circles over your clitoris, pausing occasionally to draw it into his mouth and suck as he slid first one, then two fingers inside you, massaging your walls and pressing that bright point that made you dizzy with pleasure. You began to cry out as an orgasm overtook you, and he paused, clapping a hand over your mouth, wet with your own juices. His eyes were glittering with mischief and arousal.

“Hush now,” he warned you, moving his hand to kiss you deeply, to let you taste yourself on his lips and his tongue and you moaned before he grabbed your throat, squeezing just enough to cut off sound but not air. Your mouth fell open and you met his eyes, your brows raised in surprise at your response to his hand tightening around your throat, which was to orgasm again, drenching his fingers in slick. Arthur smiled and ducked back down to press his mouth to your entrance, diligently lapping away your juices as you spread your legs wide to allow him closer, ramming your fingers into his mop of hair and tugging him so that his lips were enveloping you. He moved them slowly, kissing the flower petal folds around your slit as he would your lips, lapping his tongue inside you to accompany the curling of his fingers within you, beckoning you closer and closer to the edge.

You ground your hips up and down against his face, fighting the little squeaks and moans that threatened to pour from your lips, gasping as he nibbled and nipped at tender flesh, sucking with plush lips red with arousal and thrusting into you with his fingers all the while. You orgasmed again, clamping around his fingers and this time your juices dribbled across his lips and tongue. He licked it away, wiping a sleeve across his mouth and half-standing to sit back in his seat. His pants were jabbed abruptly outwards in a tent of material as his erect cock pressed urgently against the confines of his jeans. Arthur gave a shuddering groan, involuntarily thrusting his hips upwards to try to relieve the ache, to find friction. Hopping up, you unbuttoned his pants’ front and guided him out, sliding onto him and grinding yourself up and down upon his thick cock, squealing when the carriage hit a particularly deep pot hole, driving him so deeply inside you it almost hurt.

Arthur snatched your neck again when you cried out, thought better of it and instead shoved his salty fingers between your lips. You suckled on them, meeting his eyes, which had gone wide again in surprise.

“Darlin’, sweetheart, honey,” Arthur mumbled, a litany of hastily stammered epithets gushing from his swollen pink lips in breathless cries as though he had forgotten your name in this moment of intensity, grasping at your flesh, tangling fingers in your hair and letting you ride him until he stiffened, gasping and you slid off, taking him into your mouth and swallowing every bit of salty release that he poured onto your tongue and down your throat. “We cannot,” he panted, holding his side with a wince once he had collected himself, “do that again today.”

“Oh?” you asked, smooshing yourself in next to him so you could rest your head on his shoulder, helping him tuck his softening cock back into his pants and straightening his neckerchief for him. “And why’s that?”

“Gotta get these, ooh, goddamn ribs healed,” Arthur groaned, adjusting so that he had his legs hanging off the carriage bench and his head resting in your lap. You played with his hair, stroking your fingers through it, admiring the fine brown-blonde strands. His eyes fluttered closed and you could tell, your heart fluttering happily, that he was about to take a post-sex snooze in your lap. He trusted you enough to nap with his head resting on your thighs, you realized, trusted you not to let anything happen to him while you travelled. You swallowed hard, remembering how he had softened against you that morning and you took one of his hands adoringly, using your free hand to stroke the side of his face, your nails scratching against stubble, causing him to turn his head to kiss your palm. It was a simple gesture, but it was so pure and so gentle it took your breath away. “Once these ribs are healed, Miss Y/N,” Arthur mumbled sleepily, one side of his mouth crooking up in a smirk, “I’m gonna make sure you never call me a ‘prude’ again. You ain’t gonna be able to walk straight, darlin’.”

“That’s a pretty big promise,” you argued with a grin, and you squeezed his now-flaccid member through his jeans, making him give a small “oomph” noise that made you giggle. “I’m gonna hold you to that, Mr. Morgan.”


	6. Falling Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur falls for you. Sometimes literally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, it's more smut. Is anyone really surprised?
> 
> CW: vaginal sex  
> CW: oral sex  
> CW: fingering

Arthur fell for you, and he fell hard. Literally, in this instance. It had taken four weeks, but the two of you had made your way a state over and were stopped in a large city. It was rare you got the opportunity to dress up when you weren’t doing so to catch a bounty, so you had bought a fancy dress with matching accessories and were sitting at the bar in the city’s nicest saloon, waiting for Arthur to return from the general store.

Arthur stepped in through the swinging doors, a cocky smirk on his face as he ran his gaze over the packed saloon – and then he saw you and tripped, staggering forward, losing his footing and catching himself on another patron, whose whiskey spilled down his front. Arthur had a dopey look on his face, still enamored with you, but the situation was about to escalate in a way Arthur wasn’t prepared for. The offended patron turned a nasty look Arthur’s direction and your face paled.

“Arthur!” you warned, but too late.

The man slammed a balled fist into Arthur’s jaw, hollering “Watch where you’re goin’!”

Letting out a pained “ooof!” Arthur held a hand to his jaw, shaking his head to clear the haze the blow had caused.

“Christ, mister!” Arthur snarled, and you intervened quickly, remembering the first time you’d laid eyes on Arthur, when you had had to break up yet another fight. Snatching a beer from the top of the bar, you gave the bartender an apologetic look and high-tailed it toward Arthur.

“Here,” you said, weaving through the busy saloon and thrusting the cold beer into Arthur’s hand. _“Enough,”_ you told him significantly. You turned to the man with the spilled drink and gave him your most charming smile, though you’d very much like to beat him senseless for striking Arthur over a minor and entirely accidental incident. “Next drink’s on me, mister. Poor fella couldn’t help himself once he got a look at me.” The burly man gave you an appreciative glance, looking you up and down in a way that made you go from wanting to beat him senseless to wanting to beat him to death.

“Can’t say I blame him young lady,” he gawked with a suggestive tone, reaching out a hand to put across your shoulders. Arthur’s hand snatched his wrist and you scowled at both of them, thoroughly put out with how this evening was progressing.

“Lady’s here with me, mister,” Arthur snarled, his free hand holding the cold beer to his jaw. “Now you done hit me once already; I see you’re itchin’ to do it again.” He leaned in threateningly, releasing the man’s wrist and putting the hand on the butt of his revolver instead. “I wouldn’t. But I got a brain in my head. Reckon any man who’s got a workin’ brain would know better than to touch me or my woman. You understand me, you fool?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes and jutting his chin out in a nasty scowl.

“Oh Christ,” you muttered. There was the sound of a round being chambered in a shotgun and silence fell as the crowded saloon collectively turned their heads to look over at the bartender. Even the piano player had stopped, and you could have heard a pin drop in the suddenly tense establishment.

“That’s enough, gentlemen. You can either walk away from one another or take it outside in the street.”

“Well, then, let’s go, big man!” Arthur shouted at his enemy. The fella sized him up, glanced at you, then the gun on Arthur’s hip and spat on the floor in front of Arthur’s boots.

“Ain’t worth it,” he snapped, and stumbled away to the far corner of the saloon. The piano player and conversation started up again and the saloon was once more filled with the sound of laughing, conversation and music. Arthur was seething in place, staring after the man. You waved a hand in front of his face.

“You are making a damn fool out of yourself, Arthur Morgan. Come on, let’s have a drink.” He tore his glare away from the man with difficulty, finally meeting your eye and he softened, took a deep breath. Putting a hand around your waist, Arthur drew you close.

“You’re the prettiest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen,” he told you, leaning down to kiss you.

“Get a room!” hollered someone from the nearest table. Arthur’s face settled into a nasty grimace, but he turned beet red and bit his tongue, though you could tell he was raring for a fight. You laughed, taking his arm and leading him to the bar.

“I like his idea,” you suggested, eyes twinkling. “Those ribs ought to be healed by now.” Arthur stretched lazily to test that theory and gestured to the bartender, pulling him aside and paying for one of the upstairs rooms.

Which was how, two hours or so later and an easy bottle of whiskey drunker, you found yourself cackling as Arthur carried you over his shoulder upstairs. He slapped your ass with a wide hand, and you let out a shriek of laughter as saloon patrons either laughed at you or gave the two of you dirty looks. Either way, Arthur managed to lug you upstairs, kicking the door to the room he had rented open with a scuffed boot. He tossed you onto the bed with a growl, surveying you with the predatory gaze of a man on a mission.

Arthur tucked his thumbs into the loops of his suspenders and narrowed his eyes at you, one side of his mouth rising in a dangerous smirk.

“You shoah you’re ready for me to have my way with you, woman?” he asked, and you shivered, sobering a bit. You gazed at those wide hands with their thick fingers, at his broad chest and his stocky legs. You took in the way his eyes seemed to consume you, the way he stared at your body like he was a hungry wolf and you felt a little shred of fear immediately turn to arousal that settled somewhere between your legs, dampening your undergarments. Shifting against the quilt, you toyed with the top of your dress, tugging it downward to tease him.

“Why don’t you come over here and find out?” you asked him, batting your eyelashes at him ridiculously.

In an instant, Arthur was on top of you, ripping your bodice down so abruptly you heard stitches ripping. You were about to berate him for it when his lips went to the place where your neck met your shoulder and he sucked. A gust of breath huffed out of you at the sensation as his hands began trying to untie all the lacing at the back of your dress. He made a mess of it and, cheeks burning, he pulled his hunting knife from his hip and cut through the tangled ribbon. “Hey!” you complained. You liked this dress.

“I’ll buy you another one. I’ll buy you ten of ‘em,” he murmured at your cheek before he laved his tongue in the shell of your ear and bit the lobe gently.

“Steal them, more like,” you groused, and you heard him chuckle as he worked the rest of your clothing off.

“I’ll get you whatever you want, just get these _off_ ,” he said urgently, tugging your undergarments down. You slid a hand down the front of him, over the soft cotton shirt dyed robin’s egg blue, over his gunbelt where it hung low on his broad hips, down into his pants to nestle over his throbbing cock, which was already leaking precum into his union suit. Arthur let out a low whine when you thumbed your finger across the head, the tip of your finger dipping just at the slit and smearing precum over the silky steel flesh. “Oh Lord,” he mumbled in a trembling voice, his hips arching up into your grip. He shoved his suspenders off, then his shirt, finally standing, regretfully pulling his cock from your hand just long enough to shuck his pants and his union suit, kicking his boots off with an urgency that sent one of them banging into the chest-of-drawers and the other halfway under the bed.

Arthur was trembling with need, his hands actually shaking as they explored your body, tweaking your nipples experimentally to see if you enjoyed that sort of thing before shoving you back onto the mattress so he could pin you to it with his weight, sucking on your breast with a hum of contentment as one of his hands encompassed the other breast, squeezing and massaging the soft tissue as you squirmed beneath him.

Feeling a bit like an insect pinned to a board, or a bird caught beneath a cat’s paw, you gasped for air as Arthur consumed you, his hands roaming wildly, almost talentlessly like a young boy who has no idea what to do with himself now that he is allowed to touch and grope and massage. He made little urgent grunts as he rubbed himself on your thigh, his cock weeping sticky precum onto your flesh.

“Oh darlin’, oh honey,” he muttered, kissing you madly, biting just a little too hard when he latched his teeth onto your bottom lip, his cheeks red and his eyes unfocused. He ground his hips onto your thigh, slipping a finger inside of you and curling it in time with his own thrusts, shuddering.

“Slow down,” you urged him, and you realized with a smirk that this big handsome outlaw was still young and unaccustomed to the ways of things. You thought that perhaps much of what he was trying had been attempted only in imagination the way he tore at you now, all eager anticipation now that he was the one in charge, not you. He was clearly not virginal when you met him, but his experience must have been limited as he now seemed not to know just exactly what he wanted to do, flitting his attention from your breasts, to your slit, to your lips, your ass, your hair.

You found you didn’t mind.

This man was worshipping you in the best way he knew how, adorning you with kisses and grasps of flesh, his face so desperately earnest you almost wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it, but you adored it.

“Arthur,” you called, taking his face very gently between your hands, and you could see it now, that odd look of panic that told you he thought he had oversold himself. “Take your time. Slow down,” you ordered again. “Just…make love to me.” You reached your hand down to fondle him, lightly pulling his foreskin over the head of his cock and sliding your hand up and down before reaching down and cupping his balls, massaging them in your hand and then scratching a finger down his seam to press ever so lightly against the pucker of soft flesh between his cheeks, earning you a shocked look from him.

“Lord,” he whispered, eyes gone wide. Well, they were about to get wider, you thought with a playful smirk, bending down to engulf the head of his cock in your mouth. You gave a suck that pulled a low moan from Arthur’s throat. He buried his fingers in your hair, loosening the fancy coif it had been styled into. He pushed on the back of your head to encourage you to move, and you humored him, sliding your lips down around the base of his cock and swallowing as you met his brilliant green-blue eyes, repeating this motion in quick strokes of your neck. You lapped your rough pink tongue against the underside of his cock, making him twitch. Small, high pitched grunts poured from him as you worked your mouth over him before sliding back off with a pop, a string of saliva and precum connecting your plump lips to the head of his cock for just a moment, before you wiped your face delicately and resumed pumping his cock with your hand.

“Now then,” you purred in his ear. “Why don’t you show me what all the fuss is about?”

Arthur swallowed, ever eager to please, dipping his head down between your legs and lapping at your slit, his eyes half-lidded as he took in the heady, floral scent of your perfume and the clean smell of you, almost fresh from the tub. His tongue sought entrance and stroked against your clitoris, making a quiet mewl escape your lips. Encouraged, he added a finger, and then two, stroking as he had done a few times before, moving his fingers in the way you’d shown him, keeping a steady rhythm as you ground your hips into his mouth. In a few moments, climax overtook you and you squeezed the soft insides of your thighs against his ears, crying out as he gave a low moan from between your legs.

“I can’t take it no more,” Arthur gasped, moving over you abruptly and burying his cock inside your dripping slit with one powerful thrust that nearly hurt from the force of your hips slamming together as he pressed his pelvis hard against yours in an effort to be as deep within you as he possibly could, his balls slapping against you with his movements. The dull ache of being stretched open overwhelmed you and you half-screamed in delight as shivers of pleasure shattered through your being from the relentless pace of Arthur thrusting in and out of you, murmuring sweet words in your ear, telling you how wonderful you felt, how tight, how warm, how wet and the mere sound of his voice was nearly enough to send you tumbling over the edge, your walls tightening around him as you scratched your nails down his back hard enough you knew it had left marks on the pale skin there.

Arthur gave as good as he got, biting down on your shoulder as he rolled his hips up, his cock within you striking against the bundle of nerves that always made you gasp and again you convulsed, tightening around him as he desperately tried to show you that heaven could be made reality without an afterlife. Arthur’s hips bucked wildly against you, his thick, kiss-swollen lips parting as he groaned with pleasure, pulling you close to him and breathing hard in your ear, occasionally nipping at your earlobe and whispering soft words of encouragement to you as he buried himself within you, setting a slower pace for a few minutes, grinding against your clitoris and pressing soft kisses all along your collarbone and breasts.

“Oh, oh Arthur!” you cried as he once again rode you hard and fast, his thighs pinning you in place as he thrust into you like a half-mad stallion. With a growl, having found his confidence, Arthur flipped you so your belly was toward the bed, tipping your hips up so that your ass was waving prettily in the air. He bent down and licked your slit with a rough snarl, laving his rough tongue across your soft folds before sinking back into you, rutting hard so that the slap of his hips against your ass rang out crisply in the small room.

“Darlin’, oh darlin’,” he mumbled reaching a hand beneath you and grinding his thumb into your nub with swift movements, driving you to orgasm yet again.

“Say my name,” you begged him as he reached a hand around your neck, pulling you upright so his face was next to yours.

“You gotta want it, darlin’,” he growled and you shivered at the danger in his tone.

“Please, Arthur.”

“I been waitin’ for this moment, been waitin’ to pour myself down that pretty throat of yours,” he admitted throatily, biting your earlobe and you ground back against him in response, swallowing beneath his hand’s grip on your neck.

“Please!” you implored him, feeling yourself climax again, tightening so hard around his cock that your juices dripped down your leg and Arthur, much though he was trying to remain in control, couldn’t take it any longer. He pulled himself out with a gasp, spinning you around to face him. Obediently, you opened your mouth and he rested the head of his cock on your pink tongue, looking down at you with such a face of adoration it scared you.

With quick strokes into his tightly balled fist, Arthur finished himself onto your tongue and into your mouth, crying out your name in a rough groan. You sucked his cock, letting the head rub against the soft inside of your cheek, swallowing greedily as his hot release spurted down your throat, him digging fingers into your hair and softly mumbling, “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, you’re so beautiful, darlin’, oh Y/N!”

When Arthur began to twitch at the overstimulation, you released his cock from your mouth, swallowing again and clearing your throat, looking up at him with an expression that you realized belatedly probably matched his own in affection and intensity.

You had known one another for only two months, but in that time, you had saved his life, shown him your past, read his own and heard him tell you his story in shy bursts of honesty. You had held one another, laughed with one another, slept pressed firmly against one another. So it should not have surprised you as much as it did when the two of you flopped onto the springy mattress and he turned to you with an earnest look and mumbled,

“Y/N…I think mebbe, I, uh, I think I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Arthur is about 26 in this story and I feel like a young Arthur would be very inclined to wear his heart on his sleeve and fall in love very easily, despite the sadness in his past. In this fic, the reader is basically replacing Mary, with Arthur falling for you instead of ever meeting her. I think with the amount of time that has passed, especially given the circumstances, it would be in-character for him to be truly, madly in love with our headstrong, capable Reader - you!
> 
> Thank you everyone who has left so many encouraging comments! I love reading them, and I love hearing that you enjoy this and that my story makes you happy. You're all wonderful. ^_^


	7. A Bad Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is convinced he's a bad man, and he's willing to prove it to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah this went way longer than I planned.
> 
> CW: vaginal sex  
> CW: dirty talk  
> CW: spanking  
> CW: bondage

You stared at Arthur where he lay there, brown-blonde hair spread on his pillow, still flushed from your vigorous session of lovemaking, his lips still swollen and red, his gaze earnest and soft, an ocean in his eyes.

“Don’t say nothin’,” he begged you, taking your hand. “I know it’s too soon. I know you ain’t known me long, but I can’t get you off my mind. I want you…all the time. You’re smart, and you’re beautiful and you’re a fair hand with a gun–”

“A fine quality in a woman,” you joked to lighten the moment, and he gave you an impatient look.

“Just…” Arthur huffed a sigh. “I ain’t never loved nobody before, not in that way. But I had to tell you, ‘cuz when we get to my gang…when you meet Dutch…well, things is gonna get complicated in a way they ain’t complicated right now. So I wanted you to know. I think I love you. And you don’t…you don’t hafta say it back. I don’t want you to if you don’t mean it. I’ve never had a woman tell me she loved me, and I don’t want the first time to be a lie.”

“But…the other women you’ve been with…?” you trailed off uncomfortably. He scowled, scratching his wrist.

“Dalliances. A bit of fun here and there. There was one…” Arthur gazed at you, his eyes intense and he opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, thought better of it and cleared his throat before speaking again. “Anyway, there it is.” He shifted in place, looking as though he’d like to melt into the quilt and disappear. He glanced back at you, face uncertain.

“I prob’ly shouldn’t have said nothin’. Hell, you’re probably just with me to get help with them bounties and I just made a goddamn fool out of myself,” he started, lunging off the bed with an urgent motion, grabbing his union suit and tugging it on angrily.

You gave yourself a moment to assess your feelings, and then you stood, walking toward him with an intent expression on your face. He retreated away from you toward the door, looking anguished and confused and conflicted, but you just kept coming until his back hit the wall and you pinned him in with your arms on either side of him. Arthur opened his mouth to speak, to argue with you, to belittle himself and his feelings again, so you did the first thing you could think of to stop all that and kissed him hard on the lips, smiling through the motion when you felt him groan and soften into your touch. He held his arms awkwardly out to the sides, so you grabbed one of his hands and placed it firmly on your hip before wrapping your arms up around his neck.

Looking up into those blue, blue eyes, you glanced over the little wrinkle of consternation between his brows, saw the tip of his nose crinkling upwards just enough that the small divot at its tip deepened and you felt his breath on you as he let out the lungful of air he had been holding in anticipation or dread, you weren’t sure which. Your throat felt tight and your chest was too warm. Butterflies made laps in your stomach and you battled the urge to hiccup at the overwhelming realization you were about to admit:

“I think maybe….maybe I love you too.”

\---------------

Something shifted again after your admission to one another. It was like you were a drug, and Arthur couldn’t get enough of you. If you walked side-by-side, your arm was looped in his. When you camped, he sat next to you, his hips and thighs bumped against yours, even when cooking or sipping coffee. If he had to step away from you to help set up the tent, or stir up the fire, or feed the horses, his eyes would meet yours across the space between you intently, all dark intent and glorious adoration. It was overwhelming. And it was wonderful.

Nights with Arthur were spent with him between your legs, putting his mouth on you, his hands on you, pinning you to the ground and having his way with you until you cried out into the night, scratching nails down his back or tugging at his hair. He would wake you in the morning with soft kisses, having already made coffee and tended to the fire so it was warm. Arthur would hand you a steaming cup of coffee, kiss you lightly on the forehead and then get breakfast started, leaving the tent only after squeezing your thigh with a look that conveyed promise of making sure you knew he was going to fuck you senseless yet again the next time you camped.

Whenever the two of you rode, he would often extend his hand so you could take it, but that usually only lasted as long as your horses would tolerate being so close, which wasn’t for very long, so instead Arthur took to having you ride with him to “give your horse a break” or so he would say, but you knew he wanted the feeling of your arms around his chest, of your head against his shoulder. And that was fine, because you craved the sensation of pressing against his warm back, of hearing his heart beat beneath your ear, of feeling the vibration in his chest as you talked and laughed together.

Since your joint admission of love, the two of you had spent the better part of three weeks dawdling over the countryside, taking your time getting where you were going, simply enjoying your time together, trying to delay the inevitable difficulties meeting Arthur’s gang would cause. Sometimes you would snooze, your head lolling against his big shoulder and eventually, when he thought you were completely asleep, he would sing the lyrics to trail songs he knew, mumbling the words he didn’t know half under his breath or skipping them entirely before trailing off into an off-key hum with a small self-deprecating laugh.

 _“…and now I am a prisoner in Stillwater jail I lie,”_ Arthur rattled off happily for the seventh time that day and you chuckled. He stiffened a bit, realizing you were awake, and you kissed his neck lightly.

“I could sing you the rest of the words if you’ve forgotten them,” you teased.

“Oh…naw, naw I just…” he trailed off with a sheepish little huff. “S’alright, I was just…”

“Being goddamn adorable,” you insisted, squeezing his chest gently.

“Ain’t adorable,” he muttered, and you could see color rising in his cheeks.

_“Adorable,”_ you repeated in an emphatic tone. “Cute. Precious, even.”

“You better stop that, woman, or I’ll dump you off this horse,” he responded, but there was a smile in his tone.

“Arthur Morgan, ladies and gentlemen,” you mock-announced, “the meanest, surliest, orneriest man you ever did see. He’s tall and strong and he don’t take no guff from nobody. Never mind that he’s a big ole soft fella who loves his horse and draws animals and is gentle and kind to women and children.” You chuckled. “I hate to break it to you, Mr. Morgan, but you’re not half so awful as you seem to think you are,” you concluded, snatching his hat from his head and flopping it down onto your own, the brim of it falling most of the way down your forehead.

“You got a bounty poster in your bag that says otherwise. I _ain’t_ a good man, darlin’. Now, give me that damn hat,” he griped, but he was chuckling. You obliged him and stretched, earning you an irritated flick of his horse’s tail.

“I think your nag may be getting sick of the extra passenger. Here, let me off.” Arthur pulled his horse to a stop and you hopped up on your own, offering it a carrot before you continued. “Sun’s getting on,” you observed. “Might oughta camp soon.”

“Figured we’d go about another mile or two,” Arthur told you, and you realized that his voice sounded suddenly very tense. According to him, you were only about another twenty miles away from the gang’s last known hangout. You weren’t sure if it was this, or something you had said that had put him on edge.

You didn’t pester him and the two of you rode in silence until he suddenly pulled off the trail.

“Looks as good a place as any, I guess,” he muttered, pulling out the camp equipment. You set up the tent with his help, started a fire and began to warm some salted meat and a can of peas over it. Arthur sat next to you, as he normally did, but he seemed to shrink into himself, seemed to pull away anytime your knees bumped together, or your elbow lightly brushed against his ribs. Just as you were about to ask him if he was alright, he opened his mouth to speak.

“I am. Awful, I mean,” he clarified. “Spent my whole life robbin’ folk, hurtin’ people.” Arthur met your eyes. “Don’t try and persuade me otherwise.” You shook your head at him, taking his hand.

“I’ve robbed and hurt plenty of folk myself. And if we’re in a contest of badness here, I should point out that my bounty’s twice yours, doll.” He gave you an irritated look, but it just made you laugh. “Is that what all this surliness is about? You worried that I think you’re a _good_ person? Well, you are, and I can prove it. Here.” You took his plate from him and set it next to the fire before crawling up into his lap, your legs slung over his and over the log he was sat on. You wrapped your arms around his neck to hold yourself in place and stared into those gorgeous eyes of his. “I don’t just take the bounty posters and go after people. I look into ‘em, see what actually happened.

“See,” you continued, “I don’t believe in assistin’ the law with helpin’ _good_ people hang or rot in jail, no matter what the price on their head. I looked up that train robbery you’re wanted for. You destroyed equipment belonging to a logging company. Turns out they were going to use those tools to go clear out even more virgin forest at the train’s destination. Can’t say I disagree with what you did there, even if the effort was a bit futile. Sure, you stole a few folks’ hard-earned money from the passenger cars, but the only person on the train who got killed, it turns out, had kidnapped the little girl he was travelling with. Strikes me as _mighty_ coincidental, Mr. Morgan. It’s almost as though the big, bad outlaw who was robbin’ the train figured that out and wanted something done about it. And here’s the real kicker – you only got spotted by the authorities and a bounty put on your head because you wouldn’t leave your accomplice behind – your thirteen year old accomplice. You coulda left that kid to die, or get arrested, but you didn’t. So explain to me one more time how you’re so bad,” you requested in a questioning tone.

You waited for him to open his mouth to speak and hushed him with a finger to his plush lips.

“No, I’m not done yet,” you drawled teasingly, now unbuttoning his shirt and kissing the side of his jaw. “I watched you for weeks before I captured you, sweetheart. I saw you give money to that blind beggar every day. Not only that, but you’d chat with him, bring him food. I saw you stop to check on a girl who was cryin’ in an alley one day. I followed you and watched from afar when you beat half to death the man who had laid hands on her. You pet just about every dog you see, even the mangy ones. You are kind,” you kissed his cheek, “you are sweet,” you kissed the tip of his nose, “you _are_ good, Arthur Morgan. You’ve just got a bad temper and made a few poor life choices. ‘Don’t try and persuade me otherwise,’” you quoted back at him with a little smirk and at this point you had his union suit unbuttoned and had run a hand down into his pants, massaging the flesh there until he let out a strained grunt.

“I’m about to show you how bad I am, you keep that up,” Arthur rumbled, grabbing your shoulder with a vice-like grip. You raised a brow.

“Is that so?”

“It is, yes ma’am,” he promised, and you rolled your thumb over the head of his cock in a way that forced a low whine out of his throat.

“Prove it, then,” you challenged, hopping off his lap and heading toward the tent, shedding your shirt and pants as you did so. Arthur walked up behind you, grabbed you by the waist.

“Nuh uh,” he corrected, “get over here. I’m a bad man, remember? I don’t bed pretty women on a comfortable cot. Because I’m bad,” he explained, blushing when he realized his attempt at dirty talk was making you fight back a grin. Arthur whipped some cord out of his satchel and bound your wrists together before tying them low to the trunk of a pine tree just outside your cleared camp area, forcing you to bend over. In the darkness, you could see his eyes shining almost demonically from the orangey-red light of the fire. The bonds on your wrists were tight, but not uncomfortable. You could escape them if you really wanted to.

Arthur stepped back to stir the fire so it didn’t die down, the cocky smirk on his handsome face illuminated by warm flame as he admired his handiwork – you bent over and ready, tied helplessly to a tree with him looming toward you. You watched him unbutton his pants and pull his cock out, stroking himself until it was jutting from his opened pants’ front, hard and thick, dribbling precum from its tip. Approaching you again, that big cock bobbing with each step, he put a hand on your back, tugging your undergarments down around your ankles, the material pooling around the boots you were still wearing.

“What have we here?” he asked you, palming over the space between your legs with a warm, calloused hand, dipping a finger within you and stroking until you panted. He removed his hand before you climaxed, smirking down at you with his teeth showing starkly in the light of the fire.

“Now that’s not fair,” you argued, feeling a dull ache between your legs at the sudden loss of sensation. Arthur leaned down next to your ear and whispered,

“Guess that’s what you get for lettin’ a bad man have his way with you, darlin’.” He stepped away for a moment and you looked over your shoulder after him, shaking with need.

“Where are you going?!”

“You just sit a spell,” he advised with a devious grin. “Reckon you can stand there and think about the consequences of your actions.”

“What actions?!” you griped. Arthur chuckled.

“Makin’ an outlaw listen to some nonsense about what a good man he is, fer starters.”

“You bastard,” you laughed. When he returned, you saw he had cut a switch from one of the tender sassafras trees that grew nearby, filling the clearing with the sweet scent of licorice. Approaching you from behind, he put a broad hand on your back to make sure you stayed bent over and brought the switch across your hindquarters with a flick of his wrist. The sudden sting across your haunches made your eyes water a bit and you squawked. “What the hell was that for?!” you objected.

“That,” he explained, jabbing a tobacco-and-gunpowder-stained index finger toward you, “is for stranglin’ me in the tub.” He swatted it across the back of your legs again, making you jump in place, though this time he rubbed his hand across the offended skin. “That is for hangin’ me upside down like a piece of damn meat.” He walloped your ass again, but this time he did so with the flat of his hand and you let out a little keen of half-pain, half-arousal. “That is for gettin’ into my journal. And this,” he slapped your asscheek with his open palm hard enough to leave a welt in the shape of his hand and you moaned, “is for callin’ me ‘adorable.’” He aligned the head of his cock with your dripping slit, using his hand to slide it across your opening without sinking into you, only hinting at the pleasure it could bring you once it was buried within you, but again, just before you were about to climax from the friction of skin against skin, he removed his touch, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “I am a _bad_ man,” he said, each word spoken slowly and with insistence. You let out a whine as he curved his hand around your thigh and rubbed your folds and your clitoris with talented fingers. You ground against him, panting, needing more, needing him inside of you. He stopped touching you, instead wiping some of your hair behind your ear. “I need to hear you say it, darlin’,” he growled.

“Oh Arthur,” you moaned, rubbing your thighs together to try to finish what he had started. He popped his hand crisply across your ass, bent over you and bit your ear. You could feel his cock sitting in the cleft of your ass, hot and hard and drooling precum all over you. He was enjoying this.

“You better tell me what a bad man I am, or I’m gonna walk over there and spend myself on a tree instead of all over your pretty face, y’hear me?”

“Arthur!” you keened, not really wanting to give him what he wanted, but really, really wanting him to fuck you.

“Alright then,” he gusted a sigh, walking off.

“You’re a terrible man, Arthur Morgan!” you called after him. “Just awful!”

“That’s more like it,” he growled, coming up behind you and cradling one arm under your belly to hold you in place, his other hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head back as he settled over you, pressing the head of his cock to your asshole. You jerked slightly, unsure, and he raised a brow. He was tempted, you could tell, but he readjusted and instead pressed into your slit with a groan, biting down on your shoulder as he sank his cock firmly inside you, the most welcome of invasions. “Tell me I’m bad,” he panted in your ear, shoving himself into you until his hips were flush against your ass, his balls slapping against the backs of your thighs.

“You’re a bad man,” you gasped out. He humped you hard, grunting at the effort, his jean buttons and spurs jangling with his motion, frantic and forcing little squeals from you. You clamped down around him, screaming his name and he kept his hold on your hair, pulling it and whispering,

“What would nice folk think, if they found out you was lettin’ a big ole nasty outlaw rut you good, hmm?”

“It’d be awful,” you agreed, but you had to hide a smirk. You didn’t give a tinker’s damn what anyone thought of what you did.

“Cuz I’m a bad man,” he insisted, his hand loosening in your hair and going instead to massage your breasts as he continued his wild pace, your skin slapping together, golden in the firelight. “I’m a bad, bad man,” he maintained, fucking hard into you, relentless, his cock ramming into you until you saw stars, letting out a scream of pleasure into the night.

“Yes! Yes! You’re a bad man! Keep going,” you begged him, clenching around him for at least the third time since he had begun, unable to resist climaxing from the hard pace he was setting, with his hand holding your thighs tightly together, the friction and sensation of being filled, being pumped was delicious. Arthur obliged, moving his hands so that one was on each side of your hips, bracing himself as he pistoned in and out of you like it was his job, mouth open and gasping in cool night air, one side of his face illuminated in the light of your fire. Looking over your shoulder, you saw that he was all soft lines, all gentle looks, his eyes full of adoration as he looked down over your shoulders and hips.

“I love you,” he blurted, and while it really detracted from the whole “I’m a terrible person” thing he was trying for, it made you feel warm in your chest, so you met his eye over your shoulder and responded.

“I love you, too, Arthur Morgan.” He never had the chance to spend himself on your face like he had threatened, because the earnestness in your voice undid him. Sucking in a hard breath, he yanked himself back through sheer force of will. You could tell he was fighting the urge to bury himself in you and fill you with his release. Instead he spurted it across your back with a soft cry of your name, face going red with embarrassment at the loss of control.

Suddenly tired and eyelids heavy, Arthur leaned over you where you were bent, sucking in air as he untied your hands from the tree. You shook circulation back into your hands, which had gone a bit numb, and turned to face him, kissing him gently. Tired, he handed you his shirt and you used it to wipe away the sticky mess he’d made on your back.

“We can wash them clothes in the creek over there in the morning. For now, let’s go to sleep. I’m beat.” You laughed softly and took his hand, following him into the tent after the two of you had gotten more comfortably dressed, kicking off your boots, him yanking his jeans and boots off with a sigh of contentment. You curled into him and he pulled you to his chest, snuffling as he tucked his head into your shoulder happily.

“Hey Arthur,” you said a few minutes later, fighting a grin.

“Hmm?” he asked in a small, sleepy voice.

“You’re a good man, you know that?”

“Hush, woman. Just…hush.”


	8. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You finally meet Arthur's family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a huge amount of smut in this chapter. Needed to get some plot/character interaction in somewhere, right?
> 
> CW: vaginal sex

“Alright, we’re close, just…don’t say nothin’ to ‘em. I’ll explain first,” Arthur told you, having insisted that you ride behind him on his horse, your own tethered behind his as you often did.

“You’re not gonna get me shot are you?” you half-joked, but you felt a little streak of fear pierce you. Walking in on a gang was rarely a peaceful business, in your experience. Arthur was silent, didn’t respond, just nudged his horse forward through the brambly trail, pushing aside branches.

“Who’s there?” demanded a raspy, gravelly voice, all venom and nastiness, but the voice cracked over the word ‘there’ taking away some of the menace. A boy, probably no more than fifteen or sixteen, stepped forward out of the bracken, a rifle in his hands. He had a nasty look on his sharp features, one corner of his lip raised in a snarl you’d seen on Arthur’s face before. He had steel gray eyes shadowed by deep brows and long, tangled black hair tucked messily under a hat that looked about three sizes too big for him. In fact, it slid down onto his brow before he shoved it hastily back up and a look of recognition crossed his features just as Arthur answered.

“It’s Arthur…dumbass,” he added, but he reached out and grabbed the kid’s hat, tousling his hair. Arthur seemed to immediately regret it, making a face and wiping the grease from his fingers on his horse’s saddle blanket as he threw the hat at the boy’s face with an irritated motion. “You need a goddamn bath, Marston!”

“Where the _hell_ you been?” the kid responded, settling his hat back on his head and slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “And what is this?” he demanded, gesturing at you with an expression of surprise and irritation.

“That’s a woman, which is something you’d know if you ever took a bath so one would get within three miles of you. Ugh, you stink,” Arthur complained. “I’m liable to toss you in the pond again.” Marston went quite white at that and scratched the back of his neck nervously.

“I’ll tend to my own bath,” he snapped in that odd, gravelly voice of his, giving you a distrustful look. “And who is she, then, since you’re so prickly about answerin’ questions straight?”

“Oh this?” Arthur asked, jutting a thumb over his shoulder and glancing at you. “This is Nunna.”

“‘Nunna’?” the kid asked, disbelieving.

“Yeah,” Arthur responded, bending low in the saddle to meet his eyes with a playful smirk. “Nunna yer damn business, Marston. Now go take a bath.” You barked a laugh, and, unable to help yourself, you thrust out a hand at the kid, who looked fit to be tied, his face gone red with fury.

“Name’s Y/N,” you told him. He looked at your hand, glanced at Arthur, looked at you again and finally settled his grubby, dirt-smeared paw of a hand within your own with a strong, confident shake.

“John,” he told you in that odd, half-hoarse, half-gravelly tone. “John Marston.”

“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, John Marston.” He nodded, released your hand and stepped back, pulling a wilted pack of cigarettes out of his vest pocket, lighting one with a match struck from the side of his jeans, which were a tattered mess around his boots since he hadn’t bothered to tuck them in. From the massive draw he took from the cigarette, you thought perhaps that was why his voice sounded the way it did, but given his crotchety attitude, you also thought it was quite possible someone had tried to strangle him to death and hadn’t quite succeeded. Regardless, you found you kinda liked the foul-tempered kid.

Before John and Arthur could bicker anymore, a magnanimous voice cried out.

“Arthur, my boy! It has been many a fine day since you have graced us with your presence. To what, precisely, do we now owe the pleasure?” A tall, broad-faced man with a Roman nose, superbly groomed black hair and dark, chocolate-brown eyes approached, hands on his hips. He looked to be about ten years older than Arthur, and was dressed very finely, in a way you would expect someone to adorn themselves if they were attending a fancy dinner or an opera. Fine gold chains were woven across his vest and his boots, though still trail-worthy, were shined to an ebony polish. “My, my,” he continued, not waiting for Arthur to respond, “and who is this, Arthur?” he asked, with a pause between the question and Arthur’s name, the timing not quite long enough to come across as accusatory, but still uncomfortable.

“Hey Dutch. Had some things needed tendin’, I told you that when I left.”

“It’s been five years, son. At some point you gotta let them go.” Arthur bristled at that – you could feel his muscles tensing in his belly where you had your arms on him to keep from falling off the horse.

“I know that, Dutch. Don’t mean I ain’t still gonna put flowers on their graves every once in a while. I ain’t that much of a bastard yet.” You blinked at that, wondering just who or what exactly was being discussed. The older man scowled and finally shrugged.

“Arthur. Arthur, your emotional baggage is no reason to abandon us for nearly four months. Arthur! There’s work needs doing and I need you to do it. I need you here, _with me_ ,” he scolded, pointing his index finger adamantly at the ground as he spoke.

“ _I know, Dutch_ ,” Arthur hissed through clenched teeth, heavy emphasis on each word.

“And who is this, then, some working girl you brought into camp? What were you thinking, Arthur?” Dutch demanded. Arthur forced out a calming breath and you tried very hard to look non-threatening, while also trying very hard not to lose your temper with this man, this “Dutch” that Arthur had talked about occasionally, one of his father figures.

“You know, I often find that the best way to make new friends is not to accuse them of prostitution, Dutch,” said another man, walking up. He was older than both Dutch and Arthur, but still handsome, with a strong jaw and kind eyes. “Come on now, get down off the horse and come have some coffee. Don’t be shy, we don’t bite. Well, Arthur there clearly does, but that’s because he spends too much time out in the wild and he’s half-feral now.” Embarrassed, you quickly buttoned your shirt so the two crescent-shaped bite marks Arthur had left on your neck during sex a few days ago were covered, but you climbed down off the horse and Arthur followed. “I jest, Arthur’s a nice boy, but he’s only about as well-trained as your average draft horse, only dumber. Come on, then, what’s your name, what’s your story and how on this green earth did Arthur persuade you to come along with him?”

“Hosea,” Arthur interrupted before you could respond, “you only insult my intelligence when that back of yours is actin’ up. The disadvantage of gettin’ old, I guess. Here, I brought ya somethin’,” he said, climbing down off his horse and helping you down before reaching into his satchel and extending a bound grouping of what appeared to be flaky sticks toward Hosea. You realized a moment later it was willow bark.

“Ah, so you do remember us from time to time when you’re off on your little adventures, that is truly a comfort, Arthur,” Hosea told him, taking the offered bark and patting Arthur affectionately on the shoulder before thinking better of it and pulling him into a tight hug. Arthur went a bit stiff at first, but then relaxed and embraced his father figure warmly. “It’s good to see you, son. You been keeping alright?”

“As well as I can,” Arthur answered vaguely, and now he looked over to you. “She’s helped.” Hosea looked at you appraisingly, not as one would look at property, but the way a person might attempt to gaze into someone’s soul. The effect was eerie, but not unwelcome, and you found you liked Hosea instantly. He held out a weathered hand and removed his hat, holding it to his chest and bowing slightly.

“Hosea Matthews. And you, young lady, are…?”

“Y/N,” you told him, taking his hand, but he adjusted the grip and kissed the back of yours instead of shaking it.

“It is truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Anyone who can make Arthur here look like he’s staring at an oncoming train is welcome to join us, so far as I’m concerned. He seems quite taken with you. I trust he’s being a gentleman?” he asked in a careful tone, eyeing the bite mark, which was still protruding from your collar, and giving Arthur a stern look.

“Of course,” you answered, smiling back at Hosea. Dutch approached now.

“I apologize for my…accusation,” he said, though it looked like it physically hurt him to apologize for anything. Nevertheless, you extended your hand again and he took it, shaking it and giving you a measuring glance.

“Dutch van der Linde,” he told you.

“Y/N,” you repeated, “I’ve heard a bit about you.”

“All good things, no doubt?” he asked, eyes softening and a slight smile pulling across his features.

“Let’s just consider that a rhetorical question before anyone’s feelings get hurt,” Hosea interjected and you chuckled. “Come along and have some coffee. It’s impolite to tell a lady she looks exhausted, but offering coffee, well, that’s just good manners.”

“Hosea,” Arthur started to complain, but you took his hand to quiet him, giving him an affectionate look. He relaxed a bit and the four of you meandered over to a small camp fire where a percolator full of bitter black coffee was boiling.

You took the mug Hosea offered you, wrinkling your nose at the taste.

“My apologies, young John there only likes coffee if a horseshoe will stand upright in it, so he’s taken to making it himself before any of us can beat him to it. I’ve suggested he try mud as his beverage of choice instead, but he seems to prefer that on his outsides instead of his insides,” Hosea told you in a droll tone. “So, where did Arthur manage to find you? You seem a fine young lady, so I can only assume you’re here under duress,” Hosea joked.

Deciding to throw caution to the wind, you answered him.

“Well, I was going to take him in for the five hundred dollar bounty, but I ended up liking him well enough not to bother.” Arthur spat his coffee out abruptly, coughing and wheezing while Hosea helpfully pounded him on the back.

“A bounty hunter, Arthur? Really?” Dutch asked, tone gone cold again.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, Dutch.”

“Do enlighten us…son.”

“I’m helpin’ her bag some other bounties. We have…an arrangement. It’ll make us both some money, and you know if I’m makin’ money, then you’re makin’ money. Oughta make you happy, Dutch,” Arthur answered in a dry tone, glancing at you.

“And what is it about Arthur you liked so much that you offered to work with him, I wonder?” Dutch asked suspiciously. Hosea snorted.

“I’d wager a pretty penny you don’t want her to answer that question, Dutch.” You felt your cheeks burning hot and saw that Arthur had gone quite red as well. “At any rate, I don’t see a problem with it. Look at them, they’re attached at the hip,” Hosea observed. You looked at Arthur’s profile and he turned to you, his eyes going gentle.

“So Arthur’s gone for four months and he gets to sit around and drink coffee all day while I work?” John griped, walking up, unknowing that his presence had relieved a mildly tense moment.

“You better go take a bath, boah,” Arthur warned as the filthy teenager approached. Like a raccoon or a coyote, John skirted the edges of your group, hesitant to get close to Arthur, who looked ready to snatch him and dunk him in water. “Where the hell is Susan? She usually keeps the boy in line. Or smacks him hard enough to knock some of the dirt off him, at least,” Arthur muttered.

“She went into town a week ago with Bessie to get some supplies, they should be back tomorrow or the next day,” Dutch answered with a tone of vague disinterest. Arthur raised his brow at that, but didn’t comment on Dutch’s lackadaisical mention of his most recent significant other.

“And you’re tellin’ me John got that filthy in a _week?”_ Arthur laughed.

“She hasn’t been able to catch him in over a month,” Dutch commented, nodding significantly to Hosea as John slunk around behind him and you sensed that you were about to be caught in the middle of something chaotic.

“I don’t need a bath,” John griped and all of them collectively disagreed, an outcry of disgust at the scent of him. You kept your opinion to yourself, watching the ridiculous scene with deep amusement, relieved not to be the center of attention for a moment. John stepped past Hosea, who had subtly stuck his leg behind him, tripping the boy. Arthur, moving quickly, snatched John up by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his pants, carrying him inexorably toward the nearby pond.

“There’s some soap in my saddlebags, darlin’, will you grab it for me?” he hollered at you over John’s loud protests.

“I am _not_ getting in the middle of this,” you insisted.

“It would appear that you’re part of our outfit now, Miss Y/N,” Hosea informed you with a small smile. “Best do as you’re asked.” With a scowl, you collected the soap and followed Arthur. You could see the muscles straining beneath his shirt, struggling both to keep John moving in the direction he wanted, and to avoid John’s kicks and attempts to hit him. He dunked the kid in the water and let out a loud yelp.

“He bit me, goddammit!” Arthur cried and you cackled, watching John try to wriggle out of the shirt Arthur was hanging onto him by. Your amusement turned to concern when you saw that Arthur had lost his temper and was holding John under the surface of the water. Before you could intervene, he lifted John like a draggled rat and shook him. “Knock it off!” Arthur hollered. “Here,” he griped, taking the soap from you and handing it to John before sitting him upright in waist-deep water. “Take a goddamn bath, or I’ll drown you next time.”

Spluttering and swearing nastily under his breath, John snatched the soap from Arthur and pulled his shirt off, revealing a pale, lean chest and torso.

“You gonna pay for the show?” John snapped and you turned away, trudging back toward the camp, embarrassed that you had been caught staring at the ridiculous scene.

“That is no goddamn way to talk to a lady, Marston,” you heard Arthur berate John behind you.

“Ladies don’t wear pants,” John smarted off. You heard a blow and forced yourself not to turn around.

“Don’t you mouth off about my woman, y’hear me? One of these days, Marston, you’re gonna meet a woman as strong-minded and short-tempered as you are and you’re gonna regret actin’ like such a jackass. Now, you gonna finish bathin’ yourself or do I gotta hold a gun on you?”

“I’m bathin’, Christ, Arthur!”

“Alright, then. I don’t wanna hear you speakin’ to or about Y/N like that again, you understand me?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it, now go on. You got yourself a woman now, so apparently you don’t need the rest of us,” John mumbled bitterly.

“Marston…John, I didn’t mean to be gone for so long. It’s a long story. I’ll tell everybody tonight over dinner. In the meantime, I left you a chocolate bar in your tent. Hey.” There was a pause. “I missed you, kid.”

\--------------------

The expectation over dinner was palpable. Each of the gang members looked from you to Arthur questioningly, waiting for someone to explain the reason for your presence here, so Arthur finally did in stuttering starts and stops, hesitantly explaining how you had strangled him and hung him from a tree, only to turn him loose. He left out the “why” part of that, just mentioning your agreement that he help you hunt bounties. He also notably left out that it was O’Driscolls who had beaten and bound him later, instead saying it was just some other bounty hunters. He mentioned his recovery from his injuries, and that he had agreed to help you, figuring that the money was good and he could use a break from robbing for a while. Dutch scoffed at that, taking a drag from his sickly-sweet smelling cigar as he did so. But, regardless of the modifications to the story, the gang seemed to agree that if you were alright with Arthur, then you were alright with them too.

John sat quietly, chewing his food slowly and giving you occasional distrustful looks, but the explanation of why Arthur had been gone for so long seemed adequate, so no one seemed to feel they could complain about it anymore, though John’s face had looked distinctly crestfallen when Arthur mentioned recovering with you instead of hiring a wagon to take him back home. It was clear Arthur’s adoptive little brother had missed him deeply, and you felt bad now for keeping Arthur away from his family.

After a long while, dinner finished, the gang members began to head off to bed, Hosea first among them. Arthur excused himself to go have a cigarette and in a few minutes, only you and John remained.

John was whittling something with his knife, his tongue caught at the edge of his mouth in extreme concentration, but the knife slipped and sliced into his thumb. Cursing, he sucked on it, tossing the little wooden carving into the fire in irritation.

“Here,” you offered, pulling out your handkerchief and taking his hand, wrapping his thumb with it gently. He looked up at you with steel grey eyes and tugged his hand away, frowning a bit.

“I’ll be honest with you, lady, I don’t want to like you. You’re an outsider and you kept Arthur from us for months,” John told you, dabbing his thumb with the handkerchief and staring into the fire. “But it’s been a good long while since I seen Arthur with that dumb happy smile on his stupid face.” John looked at you. “Seems to me you put it there, so I guess I kinda have to like you. Just…don’t hurt him. Please. He’s been through enough.”

“John…whose graves was Dutch talking about when we first rode in?” John gave a full body jerk and dropped your handkerchief, hastily picking it up and dusting it off though it was already filthy from his cut.

“That…that ain’t my place to say.” He met your eyes. “And if you really know Arthur, you’ll know better than to ask. When he thinks he can trust you with it, he’ll tell you. G’night, ma’am,” he said, standing abruptly and wiping his jeans off with a self-conscious flutter of his hands. “Do you want yer, uh…?” he held out the bloodied handkerchief and you took it from him.

“Here, I’ll see if I can’t get that blood out. Have a good night, Mr. Marston.”

“You can just call me ‘John.’” He tipped his hat. “Night.”

Stretching and yawning, you walked over to the nearby pond where you found Arthur writing something in his journal, a cigarette hanging lazily out of the side of his mouth, half-forgotten. He put the journal away into his satchel and you took the satchel and his hat from him, leaning them both against the side of a tree.

“You know,” you told him as he frowned, unsure of what you were doing, “if you want to teach John that he’s supposed to bathe more frequently, you could just set a good example,” you teased him.

“What?” Arthur asked dumbly and you almost lost your nerve, but decided to follow through, shoving him forcefully into the water. He spluttered and you cackled, but his revenge was swift and forceful. He grabbed your ankle and jerked you off-balance, catching you as you toppled over and then tossing you like a sack of sentient potatoes out into the depths of the water. Gasping for air as you surfaced, you cursed, but then started laughing as he swam toward you.

“I guess I had that coming.”

“You absolutely did,” he told you, flicking his hair out of his face with a soaked hand. You grabbed onto him and the two of you kicked to keep yourselves afloat. “This would be a lot easier without these damn clothes,” he said, wrinkling his nose and wringing his bandana with one hand.

“Ooh, I like the way you think,” you purred and he caught your meaning. Swimming back to shore, darkness covering your nakedness from anyone who might be awake still, you shed your clothing and darted back into the cool water. Swimming over to a large rock that formed a small island in the middle of the pond, you leaned against it, everything below your breasts still submerged. Arthur swam up to you, staying fully in the water, his skin a pale blur in the blue-brown water. You reached your hands down behind his back and grabbed his asscheeks, kneading the soft fat there as you kissed his forehead. Arthur chuckled when you sank your fingers deeper into his asscheeks, massaging the hard muscle and stroking up to his slight lovehandles and across to his belly, which was muscular but covered with a fine pad of fat and soft blonde-brown hair.

“Dunno if you’re comin’ onto me, or tryin’ to tenderize me.”

“Haven’t decided yet,” you told him, bending forward and nipping his ear. He hummed and pulled you back down into the water with him, away from the massive granite rock. He was touching the bottom, so he held you up, your legs wrapping around his waist. He weaved his fingers up into your hair and kissed you until your lips were chapped from his stubble, swollen and red. You could barely see his eyes from the light of the Milky Way band above you, half closed as he pulled you close, and you felt his hard cock prodding against the back of your thigh where he held you.

Much though you wanted to overanalyze the evening, particularly what John had said, all you wanted now was Arthur, the complications of being near or perhaps now part of his gang aside. You forced yourself not to open your mouth, forced yourself not to say anything. Discussions could happen later, planning could happen later. Right now all that mattered was the two of you, pressed hard and hot together in the cool water, warming one another despite the chill breeze that flickered over the pond.

Crickets and frogs sang in the reeds and you gasped as Arthur readjusted you, sliding your slit down onto his cock with a groan. You wrapped your arms around him, once again kneading at his asscheeks, working your fingers up his back in a slow massage as he lifted you up and down effortlessly in the water. Your nipples were pert and erect with the cold and he tipped his head to nibble on one, sucking it lightly before returning his lips to your own and pressing your back against the rock, careful not to scratch you on it.

“Darlin’,” he murmured in your ear, “don’t look so worried. Everythin’s fine.” You gave an embarrassed smile now that you knew he could see your features in the darkness. “They all like ya. I can tell. Now settle. You’re alright, girl,” he assured you. “I’ve got you.” With that, he increased the speed of his strokes into you, pressing his hips up hard into yours, and with his asscheeks beneath your hands, you could feel muscle bunching and tightening, could feel his hips and thighs working a burning rhythm into you.

“Arthur,” you said softly.

“I’m right here, darlin’,” he whispered, holding the back of your head and pumping into you with small, earnest grunts until he felt you tighten around him and worked you through your orgasm, one hand between you rubbing against your clitoris as you cried out as quietly as you could, not wanting to wake anyone in camp.

“You don’t have to finish yourself,” you offered as you felt him getting closer and closer to orgasm, his breath hitching, his hips stuttering, his mouth half-open in a pant and his legs trembling with effort. You knew he wanted nothing more than to bury himself in you and fill you with his seed like that first time you had coupled, but the last thing either of you needed was a kid.

“It’s fine,” Arthur forced out, and he pulled his hips away from yours, but you intercepted his grip and gripped him firmly, stroking his throbbing cock, your thumb flicking gently over the soft, reddened head, dipping lightly into the slit at its end. Arthur met your eyes in the semi-darkness, his warm release spurting over your hand as he climaxed with a hoarse cry. He tread water wearily, goosebumps covering his flesh from the cold. His member had gone soft and retreated up close to his body and you swam next to him, shivering as well. You grabbed the bar of soap from shore and cleaned yourself off, teeth chattering.

“We ought to get out of the water and go to bed. Let’s warm up by the fire first, though.” Arthur nodded and allowed you to pull him out, tugging just his jeans on to cover his nudity. You pulled your clothes back on, not bothering with your undergarments for the moment. Sitting across from him by the fire and rubbing your hands together, you noticed he had a pensive look on his face.

“I suppose you wanna know whose graves I was visitin’.”

“Figured you’d tell me when you were ready,” you replied evenly. Arthur met your eyes.

“Thank you.” There was a long pause and he swallowed. “I’m not. Not yet.” Before you could respond, there was an eerie howl in the darkness and you flinched, instinctively reaching for a gun that was currently out of reach. Arthur, however, relaxed.

“Copper!” he called, ignorant of the fact that his shout may wake the others who were trying to sleep. “I was wonderin’ where you’d run off to, boah!” A massive red creature tore out of the forest and nearly knocked Arthur over, clambering onto his lap though it had to weigh at least half what he did. “Y/N, this here’s another member of my family. Meet Copper.”


	9. Civilization and Closed-In Space

“Copper?!” you exclaimed. “I distinctly remember you telling me Copper had died.”

  
“I thought he had,” Arthur breathed, looking delighted as the sentient mass of red hair continued excitingly jumping around and over him, licking his face with desperate happiness. “He got attacked by a bear a coupla weeks before I left camp...took off into the brush after I managed to shoot the damn bear. I looked and looked, but...I thought he'd gone off and died.” Hosea appeared, yawning and looking irritated.  
  
“What's all the commotion over here? Oh,” an expression of vague surprise and recognition cross his features, “I see our loyal Cerberus has now returned to our noble Hades,” he declared. You blushed, realizing you were barely dressed and had no undergarment on under your shirt, so you crossed your arms over your chest.  
  
“Why didn't you mention he was still alive, Hosea?” Arthur demanded, stilling the massive beast, which really looked more like a bloodhound had participated in an unholy union with a bright red wolf than an actual dog. Arthur surveyed the scars that covered the animal, crooning to him softly.  
  
“Wasn't quite sure it was him, to be honest,” Hosea said. “He started skulking about the camp again, oh around two months ago. We got glimpses of him by the firelight. John put out food and it'd be gone in the morning. Bessie was half-convinced it was actually a wolf and not Copper, rememberin' what happened with that bear. I guess he was just waiting for you to come home to show himself properly. Well, if that's all, I am going to attempt once more to retire to bed. He stinks to high heaven. Do be sure to bathe him, will ya, Arthur?”  
  
“Oh don't worry,” you advised in an amused tone, “I'm sure they'll bathe together.” Hosea laughed at that and returned to his tent, while Arthur stroked Copper's head. The dog had calmed finally and you got a better look at him. He had the size, frame and face of a wolf, but the droopy jowls and eyes of a hound, though instead of brown his eyes were a chilling greenish-blue. His tail was long and his coat was thick and red throughout, except on his muzzle where the hair had gone white with age. He did stink quite badly, but the most notable thing about the dog were the massive scars across his back and neck. Thick gouged lines of pink were shown by missing fur, evidence of a bad attack.   
  
“You're alright, boah,” Arthur comforted him and the big beast laid his head on Arthur's knee, whining softly. “Where've you been, huh?” The dog met his eyes and whined, lifting a big dirty paw and plopping it in Arthur's lap as if to say, “Waiting for you, dummy.”  
  
“May I pet him?” you asked, hesitant. Arthur gave you an uncertain look, and then glanced to Copper.  
  
“He's an ornery bastard. He's nearly taken John's arm off. Just be careful.” Approaching, you reached out a hand to touch soft hair and were surprised to find that it was much more wiry than you had expected. Copper's head whipped around and you resisted the urge to stumble backward. Instead of attacking, however, he sniffed your hand, wagging his tail slowly before letting out a soft “boof” and shoving his head under your hand so that you would scratch behind his ears. “Oh, he likes you,” Arthur admitted, looking delighted. He glanced at you and smiled. “One more thing to love about you, darlin'. Now, come on. Let's go to bed. Copper, heel, boah.”   
  
“He's not sleeping in the tent, is he?” you asked, truly horrified at the prospect of sharing the small space with a distinctly nasty-smelling dog.  
  
“You wanna tell him he can't?” Arthur laughed. You gave him a look and sighed, but he chuckled and put an arm around you, pulling you in close. “He likes to sleep outside my tent, darlin'. He doesn't like closed-in spaces.”  
  
“He's a wild animal,” you observed, and you grinned up at Arthur. “Kinda like you.” Arthur growled in your ear playfully and tugged you toward the tent.  
  
“Give me twenty minutes and some whiskey and I'll show you just what kinda animal I am,” he told you and you flushed.  
  
“Will you two give it a rest?!” came John's hoarse voice from his tent.  
  
“Hey John, you're awake, Copper's back!” Arthur informed him, absolutely delighted. John's head popped out of his tent and he grinned.  
  
“Copper!” The big dog growled at him, but play bowed and lunged toward the boy, bowling him over roughly.  
  
“And John _just_ had a bath,” you pointed out, snickering. With a soft bark, Copper lumbered back over to the two of you and John waved a friendly hand in farewell before tying his tent back shut.  
  
“Guess he's right,” Arthur commented. “Oughta get on to bed. Come on, boah. Good dog,” he told him as he shut the tent flaps behind you and Copper laid down just outside, guarding his master's safety now that he had returned.  
\-------------

  
“Doing a bit of fishing, huh?” you asked as you approached. John reeled in his line, giving you a nasty look.  
  
“Nah, just figured this string would tie better if it was wet.” You forced yourself not to lose your temper with him, knowing he was sore with you. You had stayed with Arthur in the camp for a week now and were pleased to find yourself with some female company when Bessie and Miss Grimshaw returned from town. They had brought with them a young woman named Annabelle, a working woman from the town who was looking for a better life. That was how this gang seemed to work - they took in the vagabonds, the ruffians, those with nowhere better or else to go. Some were transient, staying with the gang only long enough to get back on their feet, while others had stayed more permanently, believing in Dutch's lofty goal of being noble criminals. Arthur had stayed with Dutch and Hosea after the death of both his mother and his father and considered the two gang leaders his parents in all but name. John was the same way, though he was more standoffish and almost feral at times, preferring his own company to anyone else's. Except Arthur. He loved Arthur like a big brother, followed him around like a puppy, driving Arthur to madness at the best of times, and to fury at the worst.   
  
Which was why John was angry with you – you were taking Arthur from him again, leaving him with nothing other than Copper to remind him of Arthur and keep him company. The huge red hound was half-wild himself, only listening to Arthur, and even then, only when he chose to. But, he followed John around dutifully, baying at him when he felt it had been too long since John had scratched behind his ears.   
  
“We're coming back, you know?” you said gently and John ignored you, just reeled his line in and cast it back out, refusing to even acknowledge that you were still there. “The bounty's just four counties over. That's nothing. That's a two day ride there, two day ride back. Probly won't take Arthur and I more than a day to find the fella and maybe one more to get him back to the authorities and get paid. That's just a week. One week and Arthur will be back here.” You put a hand on his thin shoulder. “John.” The boy looked at you miserably. “I will bring him back here safely. I promise. You heard all about how I saved him from those guys that caught him. I wouldn't let anything bad happen to him.”  
  
“You half-strangled him in the tub!” John objected and you had to chuckle at that.  
  
“Yeah, well, that was before I knew him.”  
  
“And now you know him?”  
  
“Now I know him, and now I'd take a bullet for him. John. Sweetheart.” His nose wrinkled at the epithet and he reddened. “Arthur will be fine.” You patted his shoulder and started to walk off. “I'll tell you what, John. When Arthur and I get back, we'll see if I can't find a job you can come with us on.” His head whipped around and he looked at you in astonishment. _“If,”_ you told him, “you get that arithmetic work done that Hosea gave you. Otherwise you can forget it.”  
  
“I don't need no arithmetic.”  
  
“Any, you don't need any. And yeah you do, actually. You manage to make off with fifteen heifers, two steers, a bull and three cows heavy with calf. The heifers are worth three hundred a head, the steers fifty, the bull a hundred and the cows four-fifty. How much money are you takin' off the sale lot after they get their thirty percent cut for not turnin' you into the law for cattle rustlin'?” you demanded. Glassy-eyed, John stared.  
  
“I...I don't know.”  
  
“Well, then I guess you better learn yourself some arithmetic. We'll be back in a week.”  
  
“Hey!” he called after you.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“How much money _would_ you take from that?”  
  
“Hell if I know, do I look like I can do that kinda arithmetic in my head?” you joked. “I'll tell you what, you solve that one for me by the time I get my horse saddled and I'll bring you a candy bar.” John jerked his line out of the water and scurried to the tent where Hosea forced him to learn to read, write and do arithmetic. He sat, tongue caught at the corner of his lip, scrawling with a pencil and you had to force yourself not to laugh as you gathered your things and saddled your horse. You slung yourself up on the saddle, Arthur joining you just as John approached, looking proud. 

“Four thousand, two-hundred thirty-five dollars,” he told you quite confidently. Eyes glittering, you smirked down at him.  
  
”You really gonna let that sale yard take you for thirty percent, John? I woulda talked 'em down to twenty.” John looked exasperated, but you laughed and tipped your hat to him. “You earned yourself that candy, John. Next lesson you gotta learn is how not to be taken advantage of.” With that, you kicked your horse to action, Arthur riding close behind you.  
  
”Marston's liable to stab you in your sleep if you keep messin' with him,” he laughed.  
  
”Nah, he's harmless. Where on Earth did he come from?”  
  
”A box of dirty rags somewhere'd be my guess,” he joked.  
  
”Be serious, what's his story?”  
  
”Well, you can probly already tell, Dutch is a bit of a collector of the bad off and the worse off...”  
  
”You're with him, so clearly,” you teased him. He shot you a look, but you saw the corners of his lips were raised in amusement.  
  
”John's mamma died givin' birth to him. His daddy died when he was eight. Weren't much of a man anyway, to hear him tell it. Anyway, he went off to an orphanage and they weren't hardly feedin' the kids. Didn't sit right with John, even as a little fella. So, he started stealin' from folks. Started out just pickpocketing so he could buy himself and the other lil'uns some food, but the way I understand it, he fell into a bad group, ran away from the orphanage, started takin' a posse of kids out, trickin' someone into followin' them into an alley, and then they'd take everythin' they had. Not only that, but the older kids would beat on 'em for a bit. Kids are angry at that age, especially if they don't got nobody who cares about 'em. Anyway, John got older and people got a lot less lenient with his shenanigans. When he was twelve he tried robbin' some homesteaders and got caught. They was gonna hang him, and that's when Dutch showed up. Took him in, took him under his wing.” Arthur's voice had gone a little strained, his body language tense, making his horse fidget and champ at its bit as you rode.  
  
”The new kid in town,” you surmised. Arthur clenched his jaw and nodded, looking chagrined.  
  
”The golden boy.”  
  
”Which is why you're a little more willing to ride out away from the camp, I'm guessing? Try and prove yourself.” He was silent for a long moment.  
  
”Try and find myself, more like. I believe in what Dutch is doin', don't get me wrong but...”  
  
”But?” Arthur looked over to you, extended his hand you took it and squeezed it gently. Arthur released your hand so you could ride single-file over an area of rough terrain, and he answered you.  
  
”But...sometimes I wonder what it would be like to settle down. Accept some of this 'civilization' Dutch hates so much. I tried once before...but it didn't work out. I didn't try hard enough.” There was an awkward pause. “Anyway, where's this bounty we're goin' after?”  
  
You allowed the subject to change, didn't push.  
  
That night when you camped, you could tell Arthur had something on his mind. He was pensive, quiet. In your tent, you sat in front of him, tracing his jaw with your finger, planting soft kisses on his chin, his cheeks, his forehead. You rolled him onto his back and sat atop him and he reached up, put his hands on your waist.   
  
”Darlin',” he murmured, “I'm tired.”  
  
”Shh,” you hushed him, “then let me take care of you.” You wanted to bring him comfort, to distract him from whatever thoughts had him so far away from you. Leaning down, you kissed his forehead, brushing his slightly chapped lips with your thumb and then cupping his jaw in your hand. Arthur grabbed your wrist, stilling you and meeting your eyes.   
  
”Please,” he asked you, swallowing. “Not right now. Can we just sleep?” You blinked in surprise, but crawled off him. You could tell he was embarrassed, but you didn't want to force him to do anything he didn't wish to.  
  
”Alright,” you agreed, cuddling closer to him.  
  
”I don't...I ain't...look, can you just...hold me? Like ya did when I got beat half to death?” He looked deeply embarrassed to be asking something so soft of you, but you agreed immediately. You arranged both of you so that you were curled around him, your arm across his chest, pulling him close to you, his ass sitting in the curve where your waist met your hips.  
  
”Like this?” you asked him in a reverent voice. Arthur nodded and you heard him swallow. “Everything will be okay,” you assured him, not understanding what was wrong, but not wanting to press him. You heard his teeth squeak as he clenched his jaw. “Arthur,” you murmured, and you made a shushing sound. “Go to sleep. The things that trouble us at night usually look better in the morning.” There was a long pause and he took a couple of massive, shaky breaths, his ribcage expanding beneath your grip.  
  
”I love you,” he told you in a hushed voice that trembled as he spoke. Frowning with concern, you tugged him closer, hugging your arm tightly around his chest and worming your other arm above you so you could stroke his hair.  
  
”I love you, too.”


	10. A New Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You tell Arthur about your past, and he shares his as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Description of death by gunshot  
> CW: Mention of blood  
> CW: Mention of Eliza and Isaac's fate  
> CW: Mention of Reader's fiance's fate  
> CW: Alcohol and cigarettes as a coping mechanism

Horror. Unimaginable horror was all you could feel as you stared down at his face, his eyes blank, dead. There was a still-smoking bullet hole in the center of his forehead, dark and bloody. He laid facing the sky with an expression of permanent surprise on his features, limp.

“Why?” you whispered softly. “Why did you do that?” Arthur holstered his revolver with a heavy sigh, not meeting your eyes.

“Because he was about to shoot you, darlin’. Didn’t have any other choice.”

“There is _always_ a choice, Arthur,” you said firmly, voice hitching. You knew he was bothered by something before you’d ever found this man, this Timothy Stewart, known murderer and thief, wanted dead or alive for three hundred dollars. You knew Arthur was hurting, angry about something. You knew he had taken it out on this man, deserved or not. It wasn’t the first person whose death you’d been involved in, but you had really hoped you had left this sort of thing behind. You captured your bounties using intrigue, feminine wiles, and tricks. You didn’t kill your bounties, ever. There was only one bounty you ever wanted to kill, and it sat in your satchel like a heavy weight, a poster you’d never shown anyone, not since you’d picked it up. It didn’t matter now. This man was dead.

“I’ll put him on my horse,” Arthur told you, lugging the man’s heavy body over his shoulder, his face dark with some unrecognizable emotion. Blood dripped onto him from the single bullet wound, staining his shirt. You wondered absently how you or he would manage to get it out of the soft blue material. Was the laundry soda you owned strong enough? Feeling suddenly nauseated, you turned away, fighting to hold down what you had eaten for breakfast. “Come on, let’s go.”

You pulled yourself up onto your horse, feeling numb now. You knew Arthur was a hard man beneath that soft exterior he showed you. Or perhaps it was the opposite, only you had ignored that hard outer shell he protected himself with. He was an outlaw. A killer. A thief.

Just like you.

Swallowing, you spurred your horse after him, silent on the ride. Arthur hummed a sad trail song softly to himself, looking over his shoulder at you occasionally, his face wrinkled with concern and frustration.

Arthur did all the talking at the sheriff’s office. Handed over the bounty poster. Carried Timothy Stewart’s cooling body to the undertaker across the road. Took the money clip and tipped his hat to the sheriff. You didn’t know how to feel. You didn’t know what to think. Suddenly, rushing back from all those years ago, you felt that pull, that vague heaviness in your belly that always plagued you when you robbed a train or shot someone who was trying to shoot you. You thought you could escape it by being a bounty hunter, but you hadn’t run far enough. You hadn’t really changed. You didn’t know if you could.

You had lost, and lost, and lost, grieving what you knew you were responsible for losing but never finding closure, never actually putting an end to things.

Just a day’s ride away from the gang’s camp, you stopped to rest. With winter on its way, darkness had already fallen, the only remains of the sun a few tattered strands of reddish-pink jabbing half-heartedly above the horizon of softly waving tree branches. The two of you had shared few words as you rode toward home, both of you quiet and pensive. Sitting across the fire from you, Arthur was nursing a bottle of whiskey. His face was lit by the campfire he had built, all glowing gold and reds highlighted with those piercing blue-green eyes. You sat cross-legged on a stump, curled in on yourself, brooding. Finally, Arthur opened his mouth to speak.

“I know you don’t agree with what I did.” You said nothing. “He was dangerous.”

“You’re dangerous,” you reminded him softly, “I’m dangerous. We’re all dangerous in our own way.”

“The bounty said ‘dead or alive,’” Arthur said firmly, eyes hard.

“And I would have preferred him alive.”

“You say that now, but what if it was _your_ family he killed? Your husband? Your mother? Your child? Huh? You read that bounty poster, darlin’. That man robbed a homestead and killed everyone livin’ there. Them lawmen woulda hung him without hesitation, so what difference does it make?” he asked you, fury leaking into his voice. You met his eyes.

“The difference is that the blood is on _your_ hands, Arthur.”

“You’re talkin’ real high and mighty for a woman who makes her livin’ deliverin’ men to the gallows,” he growled, eyes narrowing, and you knew his anger wasn’t really about you, but it hardly mattered. He took another draw of whiskey, his lips twisting unhappily as he swallowed with a small hiss. You clenched your jaw so hard you thought you might crack a tooth.

“That’s enough, Arthur. Please. That’s enough.” He scowled, but you held a hand up, begging for temporary clemency before turning it palm upwards, requesting the bottle of whiskey. Hesitant, Arthur handed it to you and you took a swig, eyes watering as it burned its way down your throat and into your belly.

“It was supposed to be a simple job. In and out,” you started, your eyes going distant as you stared into the crackling fire. “Gold bullion on a train that was stopping for a freight delivery in the middle of nowhere. The perfect heist. My fiancé…” you paused, still struggling to say his name out loud after seven years, “he got our posse onboard. Met us in the train cab with the gold and busted it open. And we got it,” you continued in a voice strained with anguish as the memories churned their way to the surface as you spoke. “It was heavy, all that gold. He nearly threw his shoulder out passing the bags to me and our horses looked ready to drop by the time we had ‘em loaded. We weren’t an organized group. Not a gang, like yours, anyway, but we had a leader, went by the name ‘Mike’ while I worked with him. But we rode together, stealing a bit of this and that, made a fair bit of cash before this last train job.” You knew you were rambling, but you didn’t care, you needed to get this out however you could, explain to him the heavy weight of guilt that rested on your shoulders all these years. You’d never told anyone about it before, never talked about it to anyone. You stared blankly into the fire as you spoke.

“I used to love robbin’ banks and trains. I’d grab myself pocketsful of other people’s cash and set fire to mortgage paperwork to try and justify the theft of some poor sap’s hard-earned money. We used to harass and haze Army trains carryin’ weapons, busting Natives out when they were being transported against their will, just to cause a ruckus. But my fiancé and I, we decided we wanted to settle down, start a family. Stop our criminal ways, especially when bounties started being posted. So I told Mike we’d do one last job with him. One last big pull. I had to beg my fiancé to do it. He thought it was too dangerous, too risky. He was right, but for the wrong reason.” You swallowed, handing the whiskey bottle back to Arthur. “We handed over his share of the loot and Mike put a bullet right between my sweet H-Henry’s eyes.”

You nearly choked over the name, felt your breath coming faster and your vision grew blurry with the tears that gathered like storm clouds as you let yourself feel that ache in your chest for the first time in ages, as you let yourself think about him and his soft brown eyes, his gentle hands, his quiet voice. As you remembered the smoking hole in his forehead, and the sickening thud as he hit the ground, dead, just like that bounty Arthur shot.

“Shoulda known the kind of person Mike was after we heard what he did to a couple of folks. He and his good-for-nothing son robbed ‘em, but they didn’t leave it at that. They slit their throats and hung ‘em from the rafters like meat.” You took a shuddering breath. Looking into Arthur’s eyes, you pulled out the bounty poster that had weighed you down for seven years, your hand trembling with rage and pain now that you had allowed yourself to feel it again. You had made yourself cold, clinical. Forced yourself not to punch a hole in the hotel wall every time you pulled the poster out and stared at his despicable face. But now you were angry again.

“Micah Bell Junior. Our old group leader. He is responsible for my Henry’s death. His son Micah III too. They’ve been on the run for years, getting away with everything – murder, rape, assault, robbery, fraud. You name it and he’s done it. There never lived a worse man. I swore years ago that he’d be the last man I ever put a bullet in. I don’t kill my bounties, but, by God, I’ll put a bullet in Micah Bell and his boy if it’s the last thing I do.” You met Arthur’s eyes. “But I can’t do it alone. Every time I’ve gotten near him, every time I’ve gotten close, he’s disappeared, he and his son both. I don’t know who hurt you, I don’t know who you lost, but if you want someone to take your anger out on, then Arthur, _this_ is the man.”

Arthur sat across from you, quiet. He took a shuddering breath, wiping his face with a shaky hand.

“I reckon you deserve an explanation, after all of that,” he finally said. “Firstly, I’ll help you find that bastard and put an end to him. I know what it is to lose someone. But I’ll warn you, darlin’. Killin’ him won’t help the hurt. It won’t change the past. But it might change the future.” He swallowed hard and looked away from you as you leaned forward attentively. Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, Arthur lit one, took a long draw and then interlaced his fingers, his elbows on his knees, the cigarette dangling between two of his fingers, casting his hand in a harsh red light as smoke lapped upwards from its glowing end like a snake’s tongue.

“What I’m about to tell you don’t no one but Dutch, Hosea and John knows. I only ever told Dutch and Hosea because I run off on ‘em after it happened. I told John because he’s my brother. And I’m tellin’ you know because you’re the woman I love, and you deserve to know.” He took another heaving drag from the cigarette, finished off the bottle of whiskey and stirred the fire with a stick, gathering the courage to speak. Finally he did. “There was a woman, few years back. Eliza was her name.” He stopped again for a long, long moment, collected himself, continued. “She was a waitress. About a year older than I was at the time. We was just kids, foolin’ around. She…” He barked a gruff, humorless laugh, “she made the mistake of lettin’ me under her petticoats and we was too young and dumb to take any precautions.”

You felt the color rush from your cheeks. Arthur looked at you with a small, sad smile on his face.

“Ain’t no better way to say it, so here it is: I had a son. Isaac, she named him.” His face darkened and you saw his fists clench so hard the knuckles went white. A look of such absolute rage crossed his face that it frightened you. “I…I had set a place up for ‘em. Was takin’ care of ‘em.” You realized his eyes were wet with unshed tears, glittering reflected orange-gold light from the fire. “I’d been out with the gang robbin’ and causin’ all kinda chaos like we always have. We got a big haul and I thought I’d check in with Eliza, make sure she had enough money to take care of Isaac fer a while. I weren’t no kinda father, but I wanted to keep her in nice clothes with food on the table for ‘em both, toys for Isaac.” Arthur swallowed with an audible click and there was a long uncomfortable pause. “But I come back to two graves, freshly dug. They’d been killed, the both of ‘em, for a few bucks. Isaac weren’t even two years old. I still don’t understand why they killed my boy. Don’t think I ever will.”

Your stomach sank and you felt the familiar pain of loss course through you. You recognized this grief, this fury pasted across his hard features.

“They was _bastards_ , goin’ from homestead to homestead, robbin’ and killin’ folk. That was,” Arthur cleared his throat and forced himself to continue, “the first time I ever picked up a bounty poster. It was the first time I ever killed a man with my bare hands, though it weren’t the last. I was nineteen, just about to turn twenty. When I rode back to Dutch after killin’ the bastards that killed my son and my girl, I was a different man. A harder man, not a kid no more.”

Arthur clenched his jaw, staring up at the night sky for a moment, his eyes still shimmering with unwept tears, but his voice was steadier now. “You keep tellin’ me I’m a good man, that I ought not to get people’s blood on my hands…” Arthur shook his head, grinding the unfallen tears away roughly with the heel of his hand. Meeting your eyes again, he took a shuddering breath and continued. “I don’t know anymore, if I’m good or not. Losin’ them hurt me in a way that…I thought it destroyed some part of me, the part that hoped for a wife or a family or anythin’ other than spendin’ my life on the run waitin’ for the day I get shot down by a faster gunslinger than me. But now I think mebbe…mebbe that part of me’s still there. And if it is,” he said in a more level tone, meeting your gaze, “it’s yours. You and I, we go, we kill the man who murdered your fiancé and that’s it. That’s enough bounty hunting for a lifetime.”

You sat in quiet contemplation, considering what he had just told you.

“Alright,” you said finally. “That one last bounty, then. And what about after?” Arthur pointed to the large number pasted beneath Micah Bell Junior’s ugly mug on the poster you still held in a stiff hand.

“After that we buy a place. Settle down. Maybe buy some horses, some cattle.”

“That wasn’t our deal, Mr. Morgan,” you reminded him in a soft voice. His brow furrowed for a moment in confusion, but then he saw the slight smile that had settled across your lips.

“Looks like it’s time for a new deal, then, darlin’,” he told you.

“Looks like.” Stumbling across the distance between you, Arthur lifted you to your feet and kissed you gently, meeting your eyes. You wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him closer. You stood, held in each other’s embrace, two beings drawn inexorably together by pain, and loss, and anger.

Arthur tilted his head down so that his forehead bumped yours and you shared the same cold air, your breaths roiling together like smoke in the firelit night.


End file.
